WILD  WINGS 

J3y  MARGARET  R.  PIPER 


WILD  WINGS 


UNIT.  OF  TATJF.  LTBKARY.  T.OS 


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By  MARGARET  R.  PIPER 

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'MISS  HOLIDAY  IS  GOING  OUT  WITH  ME,'  HE  ASSERTED." 

(See  page  273.} 


WILD  WINGS 

A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH 

BY 

MARGARET  REBECCA  PIPER 

Author  of 
'  '  SYLVIA'  s  EXPERIMENT,  "  "  SYLVIA  OF  THE  HILL  TOP,  '  ' 
*  '  SYLVIA  ARDEN  DECIDES,  "  '  '  THE  HOUSE 
ON  THE  HILL,  '  *  etc. 

ILLUSTRATED   BT 

JOHN  GOSS 

@ 

THE      PAGE      COMPANY 
BOSTON  ^  MDCCCCXXI 

Copyright,  1921,  by 
THE  PAGE  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved 


Made  in  U.  S.  A. 


First  Impression,  October,  1921 


PRINTED  BY   C.  H.  SIMONDS   COMPANY 
BOSTON,  MASS.,  U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 

• 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    MOSTLY  TONY 1 

II    WITH  ROSALIND  IN  ARDEN 14 

III  A   GIRL  WHO  COULDN'T  STOP  BEING  A 

PRINCESS 26 

IV  A  BOY  WHO  WASN'T  AN  Ass  BUT  BE- 

HAVED LIKE  ONE 38 

V  WHEN  YOUTH  MEETS  YOUTH   ....  47 

VI  A  SHADOW  ON  THE  PATH     .....  58 

VII  DEVELOPMENTS  BY  MAIL 70 

VIII  THE  LITTLE  LADY  WHO  FORGOT     ...  81 

IX  TEDDY  SEIZES  THE  DAY  ......  93 

X  TONY  DANCES  INTO  A  DISCOVERY    .     .     .  105 

XI     THINGS   THAT  WERE  NOT  ALL  ON   THE 

CARD 117 

XII  AND  THERE  is  A  FLAME  .    .      .      .      .      .  129 

XIII  BITTER  FRUIT 138 

XIV  SHACKLES 148 

XV  ON  THE  EDGE  OP  THE  PRECIPICE     .     .     .  160 

XVI  IN  WHICH  PHIL  GETS  His  EYES  OPENED  168 

XVII    A  WEDDING  RING  IT  WAS  HARD  TO  RE- 
MEMBER  180 

XVIII  A  YOUNG  MAN  IN  LOVE 191 

XIX  Two  HOLIDAYS  MAKE  CONFESSION  .    .     .  203 

XX  A  YOUNG  MAN  NOT  FOR  SALE   .      .     .      .215 

XXI  HARRISON  CRESSY  REVERTS 225 

XXII  THE  DUNBURY  CURE  .  238 


2132207 


WILD  WINGS 


CHAPTER  I 

MOSTLY  TONY 

AMONG  the  voluble,  excited,  commencement- 
bound  crowd  that  boarded  the  Northampton  train 
at  Springfield  two  male  passengers  were  conspic- 
uous for  their  silence  as  they  sat  absorbed  in  their 
respective  newspapers  which  each  had  hurriedly 
purchased  in  transit  from  train  to  train. 

A  striking  enough  contrast  otherwise,  however, 
the  two  presented.  The  man  next  the  aisle  was 
well  past  sixty,  rotund  of  abdomen,  rubicund  of 
countenance,  beetle-browed.  He  was1  elaborately 
well-groomed,  almost  foppish  in  attire,  and  wore 
the  obvious  stamp  of  worldly  success,  the  air  of 
one  accustomed  to  giving  orders  and  seeing  them 
obeyed  before  his  eyes. 

His  companion  and  chance  seat-mate  was  young, 
probably  a  scant  five  and  twenty,  tall,  lean,  close- 
knit  of  frame  with  finely  chiseled,  almost  ascetic 
features,  though  the  vigorous  chin  and  generous 
sized  mouth  forbade  any  hint  of  weakness  or  effem- 
inacy. His  deep-set,  clear  gray-blue  eyes  were  the 
eyes  of  youth ;  but  they  would  have  set  a  keen  ob- 
server to  wondering  what  they  had  seen  to  leave 
that  shadow  of  unyouthful  gravity  upon  them. 

It  happened  that  both  men — the  elderly  and  the 
young — had  their  papers  folded  at  identically  the 
same  page,  and  both  were  studying  intently  the  face 


WILD  WINGS 


of  the  lovely,  dark-eyed  young  girl  who  smiled 
out  of  the  duplicate  printed  sheets  impartially  at 
both. 

The  legend  beneath  the  cut  explained  that  the 
dark-eyed  young  beauty  was  Miss  Antoinette  Hol- 
iday, who  would  play  Eosalind  that  night  in  the 
Smith  College  annual  senior  dramatics.  The  in- 
terested reader  was  further  enlightened  to  the  fact 
that  Miss  Holiday  was  the  daughter  of  the  late 
Colonel  Holiday  and  Laura  LaRue,  a  well  known 
actress  of  a  generation  ago,  and  that  the  daughter 
inherited  the  gifts  as  well  as  the  beauty  of  her 
famous  mother,  and  was  said  to  be  planning  to 
follow  the  stage  herself,  having  made  her  debut  as 
the  charming  heroine  of  "As  You  Like  It." 

The  man  next  the  aisle  frowned  a  little  as  he 
came  to  this  last  sentence  and  went  back  to  the 
perusal  of  the  girl's  face.  So  this  was  Laura's, 
daughter.  Well,  they  had  not  lied  in  one  respect 
at  least.  She  was  a  winner  for  looks.  That  was 
plain  to  be  seen  even  from  the  crude  newspaper 
reproduction.  The  girl  was  pretty.  But  what 
else  did  she  have  beside  prettiness?  That  was  the 
question.  Did  she  have  any  of  the  rest  of  it — 
Laura's  wit,  her  inimitable  charm,  her  fire,  her 
genius?  Pshaw!  No,  of  course  she  hadn't.  Na- 
ture did  not  make  two  Laura  LaRue's  in  one  cen- 
tury. It  was  too  much  to  expect. 

Lord,  what  a  woman!  And  what  a  future  she 
had  had  and  thrown  away  for  love !  Love !  That 
wasn't  it.  She  could  have  had  love  and  still  kept 
on  with  her  career.  It  was  marriage  that  had  been 
the  catastrophe — the  fatal  blunder.  Marriage  and 
domesticity  for  a  woman  like  that!  It  was  asi- 
nine— worse — criminal !  It  ought  to  have  been  for- 
bidden by  law.  And  the  stubbornness  of  her! 
After  all  these  years,  remembering,  Max  Hempel 
could  have  groaned  aloud.  Every  stage  manager 


in  New  York,  including  himself,  had  been  ready 
to  bankrupt  himself  offering  her  what  in  those 
days  were  almost  incredible  contracts  to  prevent 
her  from  the  suicidal  folly  on  which  she  was  bent. 
But  to  no  avail.  She  had  laughed  at  them  all, 
laughed  and  quit  the  stage  at  six  and  twenty,  and 
a  few  years  later  her  beauty  and  genius  were  still — 
in  death.  What  a  waste!  What  a  damnation 
waste ! 

At  this  point  in  his  animadversions  Max  Hempel 
again- looked  at  the  girl  in  the  newspaper,  the  girl 
who  was  the  product  of  the  very  marriage  he  had 
been  cursing,  LaRue's  only  daughter.  If  there  had 
been  no  marriage,  neither  would  there  have  been 
this  glorious,  radiant,  vividly  alive  young  creature. 
Men  called  Laura  LaRue  dead.  But  was  she? 
Was  she  not  tremendously  alive  in  the  life  of  her 
lovely  young  daughter?  Was  it  not  he,  and  the 
other  childless  ones  who  had  treated  matrimony 
as  the  one  supreme  mistake,  that  would  soon  be 
very  much  dead,  dead  past  any  resurrection? 

Pshaw !  He  was  getting  sentimental.  He  wasn't 
here  for  sentiment.  He  was  here  for  cold,  hard 
business.  He  was  taking  this  confounded  journey 
to  witness  an  amateur  performance  of  a  Shake- 
speare play,  when  he  loathed  traveling  in  hot 
weather,  detested  amateur  performances  of  any- 
thing, particularly  of  Shakespeare,  on  the  millionth 
of  a  chance  that  Antoinette  Holiday  might  be  pos- 
sessed of  a  tithe  of  her  mother's  talent  and  might 
eventually  be  starred  as  the  new  ingenue  he  was 
in  need  of,  afar  off,  so  to  speak.  It  was  Carol  Clay 
herself  who  had  warned  him.  Carol  was  wonder- 
ful— would  always  be  wonderful.  But  time  passes. 
There  would  come  a  season  when  the  public 
would  begin  to  count  back  and  remember  that 
Carol  had  been  playing  ingenue  parts  already  for 
over  a  decade.  There  must  always  be  youth — 


WILD  WINGS 


fresh,  flaming  youth  in  the  offing.     That  was  the 
stage  and  life. 

As  for  this  Antoinette  Holiday  girl,  he  had  none 
too  much  hope.  Max  Hempel  never  hoped  much 
on  general  principles,  so  far  as  potential  stars 
were  concerned.  He  had  seen  too  many  of  them 
go  off  fizz  bang  into  nothingness,  like  rockets.  It 
was  more  than  likely  he  was  on  a  false  trail,  that 
people  who  had  seen  the  girl  act  in  amateur  things 
had  exaggerated  her  ability.  He  trusted  no  judg- 
ment but  his  own,  which  was  perhaps  one  of  the 
reasons  why  he  was  one  of  the  greatest  living  stage 
managers.  It  was  more  than  likely  she  had  noth- 
ing but  a  pretty,  shallow  little  talent  for  play  act- 
ing and  no  notion  under  the  sun  of  giving  up  so- 
ciety or  matrimony  or  what-not  for  the  devilish 
hard  work  of  a  stage  career.  Very  likely  there 
was  some  young  galoot  waiting  even  now,  to  whisk 
Laura  LaRue's  daughter  off  the  stage  before  she 
ever  got  on. 

Moreover  there  was  always  her  family  to  cope 
with,  dyed  in  the  wool  New  Englanders  at  that, 
no  doubt  with  the  heavy  Puritan  mortmain  upon 
them,  narrow  as  a  shoe  string,  circumscribed  as  a 
duck  pond,  walled  in  by  ghastly  respectability. 
Ten  to  one,  if  the  girl  had  talent  and  ambition, 
they  would  smother  these  things  in  her,  balk  her 
at  every  turn.  They  had  regarded  Ned  Holiday's 
marriage  to  Laura  a  misalliance,  he  recalled. 
There  had  been  quite  a  to-do  about  it  at  the  time. 
Good  God!  It  had  been  a  misalliance  all  right, 
but  not  as  they  reckoned  it.  It  had  not  been  con- 
sidered suitable  for  a  Holiday  to  marry  an  actress. 
Probably  it  would  be  considered  more  unsuitable 
for  a  Holiday  to  be  an  actress.  Suitable!  Bah! 
The  question  was  not  whether  the  career  was  fit 
for  the  girl,  but  whether  the  girl  could  measure  up 
to  the  career.  And  irascibly,  unreasonably  indig- 


MOSTLY  TONY 


riant  as  if  he  had  already  been  contending  in  argu- 
ment with  legions  of  mythical,  over-respectable 
Holidays,  Max  Hempel  whipped  his  paper  open  to 
another  page,  a  page  that  told  of  a  drive  some- 
where on  the  western  front  that  had  failed  miser- 
ably, for  this  was  the  year  nineteen  hundred  and 
sixteen  and  there  was  a  war  going  on,  "on  the 
other  side."  Oh,  typically  American  phrase! 

Meanwhile  the  young  man,  too,  had  stopped  star- 
ing at  Antoinette  Holiday's  pictured  face  and  was 
staring  out  of  the  window  instead  at  the  fast  flying 
landscape.  He  had  really  no  need  anyway  to  look 
at  a  picture  of  Tony.  His  head  and  heart  were 
full  of  them.  He  had  been  storing  them  up  for 
over  eight  years  and  it  was  a  considerable  collec- 
tion by  now  and  one  in  which  he  took  great  joy 
in  lonely  hours  in  his  dingy  little  lodging  room,  or 
in  odd  moments  as  he  went  his  way  at  his  task 
as  a  reporter  for  a  great  New  York  daily.  The 
perspicuous  reader  will  not  need  to  be  told  that 
the  young  man  was  in  love  with  Tony  Holiday — 
desperately  in  love. 

Desperately  was  the  word.  Slight  as  Max  Hem- 
pel's  hope  may  have  been  that  Laura  LaRue's 
daughter  was  to  prove  the  ingenue  he  sought,  in- 
finitely slighter  was  Dick  Carson's  hope  of  ever 
making  Tony  his  wife.  How  could  it  be  otherwise? 
Tony  Holiday  was  as  far  above  him  in  his  own 
eyes  as  the  top  of  Mount  Tom  was  high  above  the 
onion  beds  of  the  valley.  The  very  name  he  used 
was  his  only  because  she  had  given  it  to  him.  Dick 
Nobody  he  had  been.  Richard  Carson  he  had  be- 
come through  grace  of  Tony. 

Like  his  companion  the  young  man  went  back 
into  the  past,  though  not  so  far  a  journey.  -As 
vividly  as  if  it  were  but  yesterday  he  remembered 
the  misery  of  flesh  and  spirit  which  had  been  his 
as  he  stowed  himself  away  in  the  hay  loft  in  the 


WILD  WINGS 


Holiday's  barn,  that  long  ago  summer  dawn,  too 
sick  to  take  another  step  and  caring  little  whether 
he  lived  or  died,  conscious  vaguely,  however,  that 
death  would  be  infinitely  preferable  to  going  back 
to  the  life  of  the  circus  and  the  man  Jim's  coarse 
brutality  from  which  he  had  made  his  escape  at 
last. 

And  then  he  had  opened  his  eyes,  hours  later, 
and  there  had  been  Tony — and  there  had  been 
chiefly  Tony  ever  since,  for  him. 

If  ever  he  amounted  to  anything,  and  he  meant 
to  amount  to  something,  it  would  be  all  due  to 
Tony  and  her  Uncle  Phil.  The  two  of  them  had 
saved  him  in  more  ways  than  one,  had  faith  in 
him  when  he  wasn't  much  but  a  scarecrow,  igno- 
rant, profane,  unmoral,  miserable,  a  "gutter  brat" 
as  some  one  had  once  called  him,  a  phrase  he  had 
never  forgotten.  It  had  seemed  to  brand  him,  set 
him  apart  from  people  like  the  Holidays  forever. 
But  Tony  and  Doctor  Phil  had  shown  him  a  differ- 
ent way  of  looking  at  it,  proved  to  him  that  nothing 
could  really  disgrace  him  but  himself.  They  had 
given  him  his  chance  and  he  had  taken  it.  Please 
God  he  would  make  himself  yet  into  something 
they  could  be  proud  of,  and  it  would  all  be  their 
doing.  He  would  never  forget  that,  whatever  hap- 
pened. 

A  half  hour  later  the  train  puffed  and  wheezed 
into  the  station  at  Northampton.  Dick  Carson 
and  Max  Hempel,  still  close  together,  descended 
into  the  swarming,  chattering  crowd  which  was 
delightfully  if  confusingly  congested  with  pretty 
girls,  more  pretty  girls  and  still  more  pretty  girls. 
But  Dick  was  not  confused.  Even  before  the 
train  had  come  to  a  full  stop  he  had  caught  sight 
of  Tony.  He  had  a  single  track  mind  so  far  as 
girls  were  concerned.  From  the  moment  his  eyes 
discovered  Tony  Holiday  the  rest  simply  did  not 


MOSTLY  TONY 


exist  for  him.  It  is  to  be  'doubted  whether  he 
knew  they  were  there  at  all,  in  spite  of  their  mani- 
fest ubiquity  and  equally  manifest  pulchritude. 

Tony  saw  him,  too,  as  he  loomed  up,  taller  than 
the  others,  bearing  resistlessly  down  upon  her. 
She  waved  a  gay  greeting  and  smiled  her  welcome 
to  him  through  the  throng.  Max  Hempel,  close 
behind,  caught  the  message,  too,  and  recognized 
the  face  of  the  girl  who  smiled  as  the  original  of 
the  newspaper  cut  he  had  just  been  studying  so 
assiduously.  Deliberately  he  dogged  the  young 
man's  heels.  He  wanted  to  get  a  close-up  view 
of  Laura  LaRue's  daughter.  She  was  much  pret- 
tier than  the  picture.  Even  from  a  distance  he 
had  made  that  out,  as  she  stood  there  among  the 
crowd,  vivacious,  vivid,  clad  all  in  white  except 
for  the  loose  coral-hued  sweater  which  set  off  her 
warm  brunette  beauty  and  the  slim  but  charmingly 
rounded  curves  of  her  supple  young  body.  Yes, 
she  was  like  Laura,  like  her  and  yet  different,  with 
a  quality  which  he  fancied  belonged  to  herself  and 
none  other. 

Almost  jealously  Hempel  watched  the  meeting 
between  the  girl  and  the  youth  who  up  to  now 
had  been  negligible  enough,  but  suddenly  emerged 
into  significance  as  the  possible  young  galoot  al- 
ready mentally  warned  off  the  premises  by  the 
stage  manager. 

"Dick !  O  Dick !  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,"  cried 
the  girl,  holding  out  both  hands  to  the  new  arrival. 
Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  eyes  shining.  She 
looked  quite  as  glad  as  she  proclaimed. 

As  for  the  young  man  who  had  set  down  his 
suitcase  and  taken  possession  of  both  the  proffered 
hands,  there  wasn't  the  slightest  doubt  that  he  was 
in  the  seventh  heaven  of  bliss  wherever  that  may 
be.  Next  door  to  Fool's  Paradise,  Max  Hempel 
hoped  somewhat  vindictively. 


8  WILD  WINGS 


"Just  you  wait,  young  man,"  he  muttered  to  him- 
self. "Bet  you'll  have  to,  anyway.  That  glorious 
young  thing  isn't  going  to  settle  down  to  the  shal- 
lows of  matrimony  without  trying  the  deep  waters 
first,  unless  I'm  mightily  mistaken.  In  the  mean- 
time we  shall  see  what  we  shall  see  to-night."  And 
the  man  of  power  trudged  away  in  the  direction 
of  a  taxicab,  leaving  youth  alone  with  itself. 

"Everybody  is  here,"  bubbled  Tony.  "At  least, 
nearly  everybody.  Larry  went  to  a  horrid  old 
medical  convention  at  Chicago,  and  can't  be  here 
for  the  play;  but  he's  coming  to  commencement. 
Of  course,  Granny  isn't  able  to  travel  and  Aunt 
Margery  couldn't  come  because  the  kiddies  have 
been  measling,  but  Ted  is  here,  and  Uncle  Phil- 
bless  him !  He  brought  the  twins  over  from  Dun- 
bury  in  the  car.  Phil  Lambert  and  everybody  are 
waiting  down  the  street.  Carlotta  too!  To  think 
you  haven't  ever  met  her,  when  she's  been  my  room- 
mate and  best  friend  for  two  years!  And,  oh! 
Dicky !  I  haven't  seen  you  myself  for  most  a  year 
and  I'm  so  glad."  She  beamed  up  at  him  as  she 
made  this  rather  ambiguous  statement.  "And 
you  haven't  said  a  word  but  just  'hello!'  Aren't 
you  glad  to  see  me,  Dicky?"  she  reproached. 

He  grunted  at  that. 

"About  a  thousand  times  gladder  than  if  I  were 
in  Heaven,  unless  you  happened  to  be  sitting  be- 
side me  on  the  golden  stairs.  And  if  you  think 
I  don't  know  how  long  it  is  since  I've  seen  you,  you 
are  mightily  mistaken.  It  is  precisely  one  million 
years  in  round  numbers." 

"Oh,  it  is?"  Tony  smiled,  appeased.  "Why 
didn't  you  say  so  before,  and  not  leave  me  to 
squeeze  it  out  of  you  like  tooth-paste?" 

Dick  grinned  back  happily. 

"Because  you  brought  me  up  not  to  interrupt 
a  lady.  You  seemed  to  have  the  floor,  so  to  speak." 


MOSTLY  TONY 


"So  to  speak,  indeed,"  laughed  Tony.  "Carlotta 
says  I  exist  for  that  sole  purpose.  But  come  on. 
Everybody's  crazy  to  see  you  and  I've  a  million 
things  to  do."  And  tucking  her  arm  in  his,  Tony 
marshaled  the  procession  of  two  down  the  stairs 
to  the  street  where  the  car  and  the  old  Holiday 
Hill  crowd  waited  to  greet  the  newest  comer  to  the 
ranks  of  the  commencement  celebrants. 

With  the  exception  of  Carlotta  Cressy,  Tony's 
roommate,  the  occupants  of  the  car  are  known  al- 
ready to  those  who  followed  the  earlier  tale  of  Hol- 
iday Hill.  * 

First  of  all  there  was  the  owner  of  the  car,  Dr. 
Philip  Holiday  himself,  a  married  man  now,  with 
a  small  son  and  daughter  of  his  own,  "Miss  Mar- 
gery's" children.  A  little  thicker  of  build  and 
thinner  of  hair  was  the  doctor,  but  possessed  of 
the  same  genial  friendliness  of  manner  and  whim- 
sical humor,  the  same  steady  hand  held  out  to  help 
wherever  and  whenever  help  was  needed.  He  was 
head  of  the  House  of  Holiday  now  for  his  father,  the 
saintly  old  pastor,  had  gone  on  to  other  fields  and 
his  soldier  brother  Ned,  Tony's  father,  had  also 
gone,  in  the  prime,  of  life,  two  years  before,  victim 
of  typhus,  leaving  his  beloved  little  daughter,  and 
his  two  sons  just  verging  into  manhood,  in  the  care 
of  the  younger  Holiday. 

As  Dick  and  the  doctor  exchanged  cordial  greet- 
ings, the  latter's  friendly  eyes  challenged  the  young 
man's  and  were  answered.  Plainly  as  if  words 
had  been  spoken  the  doctor  knew  that  Dick  was 
keeping  faith  with  the  old  pact,  living  up  to  the 
name  the  little  girl  Tony  had  given  him  in  her  im- 
pulsive generosity. 

"Something  not  quite  right,  though,"  he  thought. 
"The  boy  isn't  all  happy.  Wonder  what  the 

*  The  earlier  experiences  of  the  Holidays  and  their  friends  are 
related  in  "The  House  on  the  Hill." 


10  WILD  WINGS 


trouble  is.     Probably  a  girl.     Usually  is  at  that 
age." 

At  the  wheel  beside  the  doctor  was  his  namesake 
and  neighbor,  Philip  Lambert.  Phil  was  gradu- 
ating, himself,  this  year  from  the  college  across 
the  river,  a  sturdy  athlete  of  some  note  and  a  Phi 
Beta  Kappa  man  as  well.  Out  of  a  harum-scarum, 
willful  boyhood  he  had  emerged  into  a  finely  tem- 
pered, steady  young  manhood.  The  Dunbury 
wiseacres  who  had  been  wont  to  shake  their  heads 
over  Phil's  youthful  escapades  and  prophesy  a  bad 
end  for  such  a  devil-may-care  youngster  now  pat- 
ted themselves  complacently  on  the  back,  as  wise- 
acres will,  and  declared  they  had  always  known  the 
boy  would  turn  out  a  credit  to  his  family  and  the 
town. 

On  the  back  seat  were  Phil's  sisters,  the  pretty 
twins,  Charley  and  Clare,  still  astonishingly  alike 
at  twenty,  as  they  had  been  at  twelve,  and  still  full 
of  the  high  spirits  and  ready  laughter  and  wit  that 
had  made  them  the  life  of  the  Hill  in  the  old  days. 
Neither  looked  a  day  over  sixteen,  but  Clare  had 
already  been  teaching  two  years  in  a  Dunbury 
public  school  and  Charley  was  to  go  into  nurse's 
training  in  the  fall. 

Larry,  the  young"  doctor,  as  Dunbury  had  taken 
to  calling  him  in  distinction  from  his  uncle,  was 
not  yet  arrived,  as  Tony  had  explained;  but  Ted, 
her  younger  brother,  was  very  much  on  the  scene, 
arrayed  in  all  the  extravagant  niceties  of  modish 
attire  affected  by  university  undergraduates.  At 
twenty,  Ted  Holiday  wras  as  handsome  as  the  tra- 
ditional young  Greek  god  and  possessed  of  a  god- 
like propensity  to  do  as  he  liked  and  the  devil  take 
the  consequences.  Already  Ned  Holiday's  younger 
son  had  acquired  something  of  a  reputation  as 
a  high  flier  among  his  own  sex,  and  a  heart  breaker 
among  the  fairer  one.  Reckless,  debonair,  utterly 


MOSTLY  TONY  11 


irresponsible,  he  was  still  "terrible  Teddy"  as  his 
father  had  jocosely  dubbed  him  long  ago.  Yet  he 
was  quite  as  lovable  as  he  was  irrepressible,  and 
had  a  manifest  grace  to  counterbalance  every  one 
of  his  many  faults.  His  soberer  brother  Larry 
worried  uselessly  over  Ted's  misdeeds,  and  took 
him  sharply  to  task  for  them;  but  even  Larry  ad- 
mitted that  there  was  something  rather  magnifi- 
cent about  Ted  and  that  possibly  in  the  end  he 
would  "come  out  the  soundest  Holiday  of  them  all. 

There  remains  only  Carlotta  to  be  introduced. 
Carlotta  was  lovely  to  look  upon.  A  poet  speaks 
somewhere  of  a  face  "made  out  of  a  rose."  Car- 
lotta had  that  kind  of  a  face  and  her  eyes  were  of 
that  deep,  violet  shade  which  works  mischief  and 
magic  in  the  hearts  of  men.  As  for  her  hair,  it 
might  well  have  been  the  envy  of  any  princess,  in 
or  out  of  the  covers  of  a  book,  so  fine  spun  was  it  in 
texture,  so  pure  gold  in  color,  like  the  warm,  vivid 
shimmer  of  tropical  sunshine.  She  lifted  an  in- 
quiring gaze  now  to  Dick,  as  she  held  out  her  hand 
in  acknowledgment  of  the  introduction,  and  Dick 
murmured  something  platitudinous,  bowed  politely 
over  the  hand  and  never  noticed  what  color  her 
eyes  were.  A  single  track  mind  is  both  a  curse  and 
a  protection  to  a  man. 

"Carlotta  would  come,"  Tony  was  explaining 
gaily,  "though  I  told  her  there  wasn't  room.  Let 
me  inform  you  all  that  Carlotta  is  the  most  com- 
pletely, magnificently,  delightfully  spoiled  young 
person  in  these  United  States  of  America." 

"Barring  you?"  teased  her  uncle. 

"Barring  none.  By  comparison  with  Carlotta, 
I  am  all  the  noble  army  of  saints,  martyrs  and 
seraphim  on  record  combined.  Carlotta  is  preor- 
dained to  have  her  own  way.  Everybody  unites 
to  give  it  to  her.  We  can't  help  it.  She  hypno- 
tizes us.  Some  night  you  will  miss  the  moon  in 


12  WILD  WINGS 


its  accustomed  place  and  you  will  find  that  she 
wanted  it  for  a  few  moments  to  play^with." 

Philip  Lambert  had  turned  around  in  his  seat 
and  was  surveying  Carlotta  rather  curiously  dur- 
ing this  teasing  tirade  of  Tony's. 

"Oh,  well/'  murmured  Carlotta.  "Your  old 
moon  can  be  put  up  again  when  I  am  through  with 
it.  I  shan't  do  it  a  bit  of  harm.  Anyway,  Mr. 
Carson  must  not  be  told  such  horrid  things  about 
me  the  very  first  time  he  meets  me,  must  he,  Phil? 
He  might  think  they  were  true."  She  suddenly 
lifted  her  eyes  and  smiled  straight  up  into  the 
face  of  the  young  man  on  the  front  seat  who  was 
watching  her  so  intently. 

"Well,  aren't  they?"  returned  the  young  man  ad- 
dressed, stooping  to  examine  the  brake. 

Carlotta  did  not  appear  in  the  least  offended 
at  his  curt  comment.  Indeed  the  smile  on  her  lips 
lingered  as  if  it  had  some  inner  reason  for  being 
there. 

"Hop  in,  Tony,"  ordered  Ted  with  brotherly  per- 
emptoriness.  "Carlotta,  you  are  one  too  many,  my 
love.  You  will  have  to  sit  in  my  lap." 

"I'm  getting  out,"  said  Phil.  "I'm  due  across 
the  river.  Want  Ted  to  take  the  wheel,  Doctor?" 

"I  do  not.  I  have  a  wife  and  children  at  home. 
I  cannot  afford  to  place  my  life  in  jeopardy."  The 
doctor's  eyes  twinkled  as  they  rested  a  moment  on 
his  youngest  nephew. 

"Now,  Uncle  Phil,  that's  mean  of  you.  You 
ought  to  see  me  drive." 

"I  have,"  commented  Dr.  Holiday  drily.  "Come 
on  over  here,  one  of  you  twinnies,  if  Phil  must  go. 
See  you  to-night,  niy  boy?"  he  turned  to  his  name- 
sake to  ask  as  Charley  accepted  the  invitation  and 
clambered  over  the  back  of  the  seat  while  the  doc- 
tor took  her  brother's  vacated  post. 

Phil  shook  his  head. 


MOSTLY  TONY  13 


"No.  I  was  in  on  the  dress  rehearsal  last  night. 
I've  had  my  share.  But  you  folks  are  going  to 
see  the  jolliest  Rosalind  that  ever  grew  in  Arden 
or  out  of  it.  That's  one  sure  thing." 

Phil  smiled  at  Tony  as  he  spoke,  and  Dick,  set- 
tling himself  in  the  small  seat  beside  Ted,  felt  a 
small  barbed  dart  of  jealousy  prick  into  him. 

Tony  and  Phil  were  obviously  exceedingly  good 
friends.  They  had,  he  knew,  seen  much  of  each 
other  cluring  the  past  four  years,  with  only  a  river 
between.  Phil  was  Tony's  own  kind,  college- 
trained,  with  a  certified  line  of  good  old  New  Eng- 
land ancestry  behind  him.  Moreover,  he*  was  a 
darned  fine  fellow — one  of  the  best,  in  fact.  In 
spite  of  that  hateful  little'  jabbing  dart,  Dick  ac- 
knowledged that.  Ah  well,  there  was  more  than 
a  river  between  himself  and  Tony  Holiday  and 
there  always  would  be.  Who  was  he,  nameless  as 
he  was,  to  enter  the  lists  against  Philip  Lambert  or 
any  one  else? 

The  car  sped  away,  leaving  Phil  standing  bare- 
headed in  the  sunshine,  staring  after  it.  The 
mocking  silver  lilt  of  Carlotta  Cressy's  laughter 
drifted  back  to  him.  He  shrugged,  jammed  on  his 
hat  and  strode  off  in  the  direction  of  the  trolley 
car. 

Dick  Carson  might  just  as  well  have  spared 
himself  the  pain  of  jealousy.  Phil  had  already 
forgotten  Tony,  was  remembering  only  Carlotta, 
who  would  never  deliberately  do  a  mite  of  harm 
to  the  moon,  would  merely  want  to  play  with  it 
at  her  fancy  and  leave  it  at  her  whim  for  somebody 
else  to  replace,  if  anybody  cared  to  take  the  pains. 
And  what  was  a  moon  more  or  less  anyway? 


CHAPTER  II 

WITH   ROSALIND   IN   ABDEN 

OF  course  it  is  understood  that  every  graduating 
class  rightfully  asserts,  and  is  backed  up  in  its 
belief  by  doting  >and  nobly  partisan  relatives  and 
blindly  devoted,  hyperbolic  friends,  that  its  partic- 
ular, unique  and  proper  senior  dramatics  is  the 
most  glorious  and  unforgettable  performance  in 
all  the  histrionic  annals  of  the  college,  a  thing  to 
make  Will  Shakespeare  himself  rise  and  applaud 
from  his  high  and  far  off  hills  of  Paradise. 

Certainly  Tony's  class  knew,  past  any  qualms  of 
doubt,  and  made  no  bones  of  proclaiming  its  con- 
viction that  there  never  had  been  such  a  wonderful 
"As  You  Like  It"  and  that  never,  so  long  as  the 
stars  kept  their  seats  in  the  heavens  and  senior 
classes  produced  Shakespeare — two  practically  syn-  / 
onymous  conditions — would  there  ever  be  such  an- 
other Rosalind  as  Tony  Holiday,  so. fresh,  so  spon- 
taneous, so  happy  in  her  acting,  so  bewitchingly 
winsome  to  behold,  so  boyish,  yet  so  exquisitely 
feminine  in  her  doublet  and  hose,  so  daring,  so 
dainty,  so  full  of  wit  and  grace  and  sparkle,  so 
tender,  so  merry,  so  natural,  so  all-in-all  and 
utterly  as  Will  himself  would  have  liked  his  "right 
Rosalind"  to  be. 

So  the  class  maintained  and  so  they  chanted 
soon  and  late,  in  many  keys,  "with  a  hey  and  a  ho 
and  a  hey  nonino."  And  who  so  bold  or  malicious, 
or  age  cankered  as  to  dispute  the  dictum?  Is  it 
not  youth's  privilege  to  fling  enthusiasm  and  su- 

14 


WITH  ROSALIND  IN  ARDEN  15 

perlatives  to  the  wind  and  to  deal  in  glorious  arro- 
gance? 

It  must  be  admitted,  however,  in  due  justice, 
that  the  class  that  played  "As  You  Like  It"  that 
year  had  some  grounds  on  which  to  base  its  pre- 
tensions and  vain-glory.  For  had  not  a  great 
stage  manager  been  present  and  applauded  until 
his  palms  were*  purple  and  perspiration  beaded  his 
beak  of  a  nose?  Had  he  not,  as  the  last  curtain 
descended,  blown  his  nose,  mopped  his  brow,  ex- 
claimed "God  bless  my  soul!"  three  times  in  suc- 
cession and  demanded  to  be  shown  without  delay 
into  the  presence  of  Rosalind? 

As  we  know  already,  the  great  stage  manager 
had  not  come  over-willingly  or  over-hopefully  to 
Northampton  to  see  Tony  Holiday  play  Rosalind. 
Indeed,  when  it  had  been  first  suggested  that  he  do 
so,  he  had  objected  violently  and  remarked  with 
conviction  that  he  would  "be  da — er — blessed  if  he 
would."  But  he  had  come  and  he  had  been 
blessed  involuntarily. 

For  he  had  seen  something  he  had  not  expected 
to  see — a  real  play,  with  real  magic'  to  it,  such 
magic  as  all  his  cunning  stage  artifice,  all  the  stud- 
ied artistry  of  his  fearfully  and  wonderfully  sala- 
ried stellar  attachments  somehow  missed  achiev- 
ing. He  tried  afterwards  to  explain  to  Carol  Clay, 
his  favorite  star,  just  what  the  quality  of  the  magic 
was,  but  somehow  he  could  not  get  it  into  words. 
It  wasn't  exactly  wordable  perhaps.  It  was  some- 
thing that  rendered  negligible  the  occasionally 
creaking  mechanism  and  crudeness  of  stage  busi- 
ness and  rendition ;  something  compounded  of  dew 
and  sun  and  wind,  such  as  could  only  be  found  in  a 
veritable  Forest  of  Arden;  something  elusive,  ex- 
quisite, iridescent ;  something  he  had  supposed  had 
vanished  from  the  world  about  the  time  they  put 
Pan  out  of  business  and  stopped  up  the  Pipes  of  Ar- 


16  WILD  WINGS 


cady.  It  was  enchanting,  elemental,  genuine  Eliz- 
abethan, had  the  spirit  of  Master  Skylark  himself 
in  it.  Maybe  it  was  the  spirit  of  youth  itself,  im- 
mortal youth,  playing  immortal  youth's  supreme 
play?  Who  knows  or  can  lay  finger  upon  the  se- 
cret of  the  magic?  The  great  stage  manager  did 
not  and  could  not.  He  only  knew  that,  in  spite  of 
himself,  he  had  drunk  deep  for  a  moment  of  true 
elixir. 

But  as  for  Rosalind  herself  that  was  another 
matter.  Max  Hempel  was  entirely  capable  of  an- 
alyzing his  impressions  there  and  correlating  them 
with  the  cold  hard  business  on  which  he  had  come. 
Even  if  the  play  had  proved  a  greater  bore  than  he 
had  anticipated,  the  trip  from  Broadway  to  the 
Academy  of  Music  would  still  have  been  materially 
worth  wrhile.  Antoinette  Holiday  was  a  genuine 
find,  authentic  star  stuff.  They  hadn't  spoiled  her, 
plastered  her  over  with  meaningless  mannerisms. 
She  was  virgin  material — untrained,  with  worlds  to 
learn,  of  course;  but  with  a  spark  of  the  true  fire 
in  her — her  mother's  own  daughter,  which  was  the 
most  promising  thing  anybody  could  say  of  her. 

No  wonder  Max  Hempel  had  peremptorily  de- 
manded to  be  shown  behind  the  scenes  without  an 
instant's  delay.  Hie  was  almost  in  a  panic  lest 
some  other  manager  should  likewise  have  gotten 
wind  of  this  Rosalind  and  be  lurking  in  the  wings 
even  now  to  pounce  upon  his  own  legitimate  prey. 
He  couldn't  quite  forget  either  the  tall  young  man 
of  the  afternoon's  encounter,  his  seatmate  up  from 
Springfield.  He  wasn't  exactly  afraid,  however, 
having  seen  the  girl  and  w^atched  her  live  Rosalind. 
The  child  had  wings  and  would  want  to  fly  far  and 
free  with  them,  unless  he  was  mightily  mistaken  in 
his  reading  of  her. 

Tony  was  still  resplendent  in  her  wedding  white, 
and  with  her  arms  full  of  roses,  wrhen  she  obeyed 


WITH  ROSALIND  IN  ARDEN  17 

the  summons  to  the  stage  door  on  being  told  that 
the  great  manager  wished  to  see  her.  She  came 
toward  him,  flushed,  excited,  adorably  pretty.  She 
laid  down  her  roses  and  held  out  her  hand,  shy, 
but  perfectly  self-possessed. 

"  'Well,  this  is  the  Forest  of  Arden/  "  she  quoted. 
"It  must  be  or  else  I  am  dreaming.  As  long  as  I 
can  remember  I  have  wanted  to  meet  you,  and  here 
you  are,  right  on  the  edge  of  the  forest." 

He  bowed  low  over  her  hand  and  raised  it  gal- 
lantly to  his  lips. 

"I  rather  think  I  am  still  in  Arden  myself,"  he 
said.  "My  dear,  you  have  given  me  a  treat  such  as  I 
never  expected  to  enjoy  again  in  this  world.  You 
made  me  forget  I  knew  anything  about  plays  or 
was  seeing  one.  You  carried  me  off  with  you  to 
Arden." 

"Did  you  really  like  the  play?"  begged  Tony, 
shining-eyed  at  the  praise  of  the  great  man. 

"I  liked  it  amazingly  and  I  liked  your  playing 
even  more  amazingly.  Is  it  true  that  you  are 
going  on  the  stage?''  He  had  dropped  Arden  now, 
gotten  down  to  what  he  would  have  called  brass 
tacks.  The  difference  was  in  hts  voice.  Tony 
sensed  it  vaguely  and  was  suddenly  a  little  fright- 
ened. 

"Why,  I— I  don't  know,"  she  faltered.  "I  hope 
so.  Sometime." 

"Sometime  is  never,"  he  snapped.  "That  won't 
do." 

The  Arden  magic  was  quite  gone  by  this  time. 
He  was  scowling  a  little  and  thrust  out  his  upper- 
lip  in  a  way  Tony  did  not  care  for  at  all.  It  oc- 
cured  to  her  inconsequentially  that  he  looked  a 
good  deal  like  the  wolf,  in  the  story,  who  threat- 
ened to  "huff  and  puff"  until  he  blew  in  the  house 
of  the  little  pigs.  She  didn't  want  her  house  blown 
in.  She  wished  Uncle  Phil  would  come.  She 


18  WILD  WINGS 


stooped  to  gather  up  her  roses  as  if  they  might 
serve  as  a  barricade  between  her  and  the  wolf. 
But  suddenly  she  forgot  her  misgivings  again,  for 
Max  Hempel  was  saying  incredible  things,  things 
which  set  her  imagination  agog  and  her  pulses 
leaping.  He  was  offering  her  a  small  role,  a  maid's 
part,  in  one  of  his  road  companies. 

"Me !"  she  gasped  from  behind  her  roses. 

"You." 

"When?" 

"To-morrow — the  day  after — next  week  at  the 
latest.  Chances  like  that  don't  go  begging  long, 
young  lady.  Will  you  take  it?" 

"Oh,  I  wish  I  could!"  sighed  Tony.  "But  I 
am  afraid  I  can't.  Oh,  there  is  Uncle  Phil!"  she 
interrupted  herself  to  exclaim  with  perceptible  re- 
lief. 

In  a  moment  Doctor  Holiday  was  with  them, 
his  arm  around  Tony  while  he  acknowledged  the 
introduction  to  the  stage  manager,  who  eyed  him 
somewhat  uncordially.  The  two  men  took  each  the 
other's  measure.  Possibly  a  spark  of  antagonism 
flashed  between  them  for  an  instant.  Each  wanted 
the  lovely  little  Rosalind  on  his  own  side  of  the 
fence,  and  each  suspected  the  other  of  desiring  to 
lure  her  to  the  other  side  if  he  could.  For  the 
moment  however,  the  advantage  was  all  with  the 
doctor,  with  his  protecting  arm  around  Tony. 

"Holiday!"  muttered  Hempel.  "There  was  a 
Holiday  once  who  married  one  of  the  finest  act- 
resses of  the  American  stage — carried  her  off  to 
nurse  his  babies.  I  never  forgave  that  man.  He 
was  a  brute." 

Tony  stiffened.  Her  eyes  flashed.  She  drew 
away  from  her  uncle  and  confronted  the  stage 
manager  angrily. 

"He  wasn't  a  brute,  if  you  mean  my  father!" 
she  burst  out.  "My  mother  was  Laura  Laliue." 


WITH  ROSALIND  IN  ARDEN  19 

"I  know  it,"  grinned  the  manager,  thoroughly 
delighted  to  have  struck  fire.  The  girl  was  better 
even  than  he  had  thought.  She  was  magnificent, 
angry.  "That's  why  I'm  here,"  he  added.  "I 
just  offered  this  young  person  a  part  in  a  prac- 
tically all-star  cast,  touring  the  West.  Do  you 
mind?"  he  challenged  Doctor  Holiday. 

"I  should  mind  her  accepting,"  said  the  other 
man  tranquilly.  "As  it  is,  I  am  duly  appreciative 
of  the  "offer.  Thank  you." 

"What  if  I  told  you  she  had  accepted?"  the  wolf 
snapped. 

Tony  saw  the  swift  shadow  cloud  her  uncle's 
face  and  hated  the  manager  for  hurting  him  like 
that, 

"I  didn't,"  she  protested  indignantly.  "You 
know  I  wouldn't  promise  anything  without  talk- 
ing to  you,  Uncle  Phil.  I  told  him  I  couldn't  go." 

"But  you  wanted  to,"  persisted  the  wolf,  bound 
to  get  his  fangs  in  somewhere. 

Tony  smiled  a  little  wistfully. 

"I  wanted  to  most  awfully,"  she  confessed,  pat- 
ting her  uncle's  arm  to  take  the  sting  out  of  her 
admission.  "Will  you  ask  me  again  some  day?" 
she  appealed  to  the  manager. 

He  snorted  at  that. 

"You'll  come  asking  me,  young  lady,  and  be- 
fore long,  too.  Laura  La  Rue's  daughter  isn't 
going  to  settle  down  to  being  either  a  butterfly  or 
a  blue-stocking.  You  are  going  on  the  stage  and 
you  know  it.  No  use,  Holiday.  You  won't  be 
able  to  hold  her  back.  It's  in  the  blood.  You  may 
be  able  to  dam  the  tide  for  a  time,  but  not  for- 
ever." 

"I  don't  intend  to  dam  it,"  said  the  doctor 
gravely.  "If,  when  the  time  comes,  Tony  wishes 
to  go  on  the  stage,  I  shall  not  try  to  prevent  her. 
In  fact  I  shall  help  her  in  every  way  in  my  power." 


20  WILD  WINGS 


"Uncle  Phil !"  Tony's  voice  had  a  tiny  catch  in 
it.  She  knew  her  grandmother  would  be  bitterly 
opposed  to  her  going  on  the  stage,  and  had  imag- 
ined she  would  have  to  win  even  her  uncle  over  by 
slow  degrees  to  the  gratifying  of  this  desire  of  her 
heart.  It  had  hurt  her  even  to  think  of  hurting  him 
or  going  against  him  in  any  way — he  who  was,  "  fa- 
ther and  mother  and  a'  "  to  her.  Dear  Uncle  Phil ! 
How  he  always  understood  and  took  the  big,  broad 
viewpoint ! 

The  manager  grunted  approval  at  that.  His 
belligerency  waned. 

"Congratulate  you,  sir.  That's  spoken  like  a 
man  of  sense.  Evidently  you  are  able  to  see  over 
the  wall  farther  than  most  of  the  witch-ridden  New 
Englanders  I've  met.  I  should  like  the  chance  to 
launch  this  Eosalind  of  yours.  But  don't  make  it 
too  far  off.  Youth  is  the  biggest  drawing  card  in 
the  world  and — the  most  transient.  You  have  to 
get  in  the  game  early  to  get  away  with  it.  I'll 
start  her  whenever  you  say — next  week — next 
month — next  year.  Guarantee  to  have  her  ready  to 
understudy  a  star  in  three  months  and  perhaps  a 
star  herself  in  six.  She  might  jump  into  the 
heavens  overnight.  Stranger  things  have  happened. 
What  do  you  say?  May  I  have  an  option  on  the 
young  lady?" 

"That  is  rather  too  big  a  question  to  settle  off 
hand  at  midnight.     Tony  is  barely  twenty-two  and 
she  has  home  obligations  which  will  have  to  be  con- 
sidered.    Her  grandmother  is  old  and  frail  and— 
a  New  Englander  of  the  old  school." 

"Too  bad,"  commiserated  the  manager.  "But 
never  mind  all  that.  All  I  ask  is  that  you  won't 
let  her  sign  up  with  anybody  else  without  giving 
me  a  chance  first." 

"I  think  we  may  safely  promise  that  and  thank 
you.  Tony  and  I  both  appreciate  that  you  are 


WITH  ROSALIND  IN  ARDEN  21 

doing  her  a  good  deal  of  honor  for  one  small  school 
girl,  eh  Tony?"  The  doctor  smiled  down  at  his 
flushed,  starry-eyed  niece.  He  understood  precisely 
what  a  big  moment  it  was  for  her. 

"Oh,  I  should  think  so !"  sighed  Tony.  "You  are 
awfully  kind,  Mr.  Hempel.  It  is  like  a  wonder- 
ful dream — almost  too  good  to  be  true." 

Both  men  smiled  at  that.  For  youth  no  dream 
is  quite  too  extravagant  or  incredible  to  be  poten- 
tially true.  No  grim  specters  of  failure  and  dis- 
illusionment and  frustration  dog  its  bright  path. 
All  possibilities  are  its  divine  inheritance. 

"Mr.  Hempel,  did  you  know  my  mother?"  Tony 
asked  suddenly,  with  a  shadow  of  wistfulness  in 
her  dark  eyes.  There  were  so  few  people  whom 
she  met  that  had  known  her  mother.  It  was  as  if 
Laura  LaRue  had  moved  in  a  different  orbit  from 
that  of  her  daughter.  It  always  hurt  Tony  to  feel 
that.  But  here  was  one  who  was  of  her  mother's 
own  world.  No  wonder  her  eyes  were  beseeching 
as  they  sought  the  great  manager's. 

He  bowed  gravely. 

"I  knew  her  very  well.  She  was  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  women  I  have  ever  seen — and  one  of  the 
greatest  actresses.  Your  father  was  a  lucky  man, 
my  dear.  Few  women  would  have  given  up  for 
any  man  what  she  gave  up  for  him." 

"Oh,  but — she  loved  him,"  explained  Laura  La- 
Rue's  daughter  simply. 

Again  Hempel  nodded. 

"She  did,"  he  admitted  grimly.  rAfter  all  these 
years  there  was  no  use  admitting  that  that  had 
been  the  deepest  rub  of  all,  that  Laura  had  loved 
Ned  Holiday  and  had  never,  for  even  the  span  of  a 
moment,  thought  of  caring  for  himself.  "I  repeat, 
your  father  was  a  very  lucky  man — a  damnably 
lucky  one." 

And  with  that  they  shook  hands  and  parted. 


22  WILD  WINGS 


It  was  many  months  before  Tony  was  to  see  Max 
Hempel  again  and  many  waters  were  to  run  under 
the  bridge  before  the  meeting  came  to  pass. 

Outside  in  the  car,  Ted,  Dick  and  the  twins 
waited  the  arrival  of  the  heroine  of  the  evening. 
The  three  latter  greeted  her  with  a  burst  of  pride- 
ful  congratulation;  the  former,  being  merely  a 
brother,  was  distinctly  cross  at  having  been  kept 
waiting  so  long  and  did  not  hesitate  to  express  his 
sentiments  fully  out  loud.  But  Doctor  Holiday 
cut  short  his  nephew's  somewhat  ungracious  speech 
by  a  quiet  reminder  that  the  car  was  here  primarily 
for  Tony's  use,  and  the  boy  subsided,  having  no 
more  to  say  until,  having  deposited  the  occupants 
of  the  car  at  their  various  destinations,  he  an- 
nounced to  his  uncle  with  elaborate  careless- 
ness that  he  would  take  the  car  around  to  the 
garage. 

But  he  did  not  turn  in  at  the  side  street  where 
the  garage  was.  Instead  he  shot  out  Elm  Street, 
"hitting  her  up"  at  forty.  There  had  been  a  rea- 
son for  his  impatience.  Ted  Holiday  had  important 
private  business  to  transact  ere  cock  crow. 

Tony  lay  awake  a  long  time  that  night,  dream- 
ing dreams  that  carried  her  far  and  far  into  the 
future,  until  Eosalind's  happy  triumph  of  the 
evening  almost  faded  away  in  the  glory  of  the  yet- 
to-be.  It  was  characteristic  of  the  girl's  stage  of 
development  that  in  all  her  dreams,  no  lovers, 
much  less  a  possible  husband,  ever  once  entered. 
Tony  Holiday  was  in  love  with  life  and  life  alone 
that  wonderful  June  night.  As  Hempel  had 
shrewdly  perceived  she  was  conscious  of  having 
wings  and  desirous  of  flying  far  and  free  with 
them  ere  she  came  to  pause. 

She  did  remember,  in  passing  however,  how  she 
had  caught  Dick's  eyes  once  as  he  sat  in  the  box 
near  the  stage,  and  how  his  rapt  gaze  had  thrilled 


WITH  ROSALIND  IN  ARDEN  23 

her  to  intenser  playing  of  her  part.  And  she  re- 
membered how  dear  he  was  afterward  in  the  car 
when  he  held  her  roses  and  told  her  softly  what 
a  wonderful,  wonderful  Rosalind  she  was.  But, 
on  the  whole,  Dick,  like  most  of  the  rest  of  the 
people  with  whom  she  had  held  converse  since 
the  curtain  went  down  upon  Arden,  seemed  un- 
important and  indistinct,  like  courtiers  and  for- 
esters, ^not  specifically  named  among  the  drama- 
tis personcc,  just  put  in  to  fill  out  and  make  a 
more  effective  stage  setting. 

Dick,  too,  in  his  room  on  Greene  Street,  was 
wakeful.  He  sat  by  the  window  far  into  the  night. 
His  heart  was  heavy  within  him.  The  gulf  be- 
tween him  and  Tony  had  suddenly  widened  im- 
measureably.  She  was  a  real  actress.  He  hadn't 
needed  a  great  manager's  verdict  to  teach  him 
that.  He  had  seen  it  with  his  own  eyes,  heard 
it  with  his  own  ears,  felt  it  with  his  own  heart. 
He  had  worshiped  and  adored  and  been  made 
unutterably  sad  and  lonely  by  her  dazzling  suc- 
cess, glad  as  he  was  that  it  had  come  to  her.  Tony 
would  go  on  in  her  shining  path.  He  would  al- 
ways lag  behind  in  the  shadows.  They  would 
never  come  together  as  long  as  they  both  lived. 
She  had  started  too  far  ahead.  He  could  never 
overtake  her. 

If  only  there  were  some  way  of  finding  out  who 
he  was,  get  some  clue  as  to  his  parentage.  He 
only  knew  that  the  man  they  called  Jim,  who  had 
kicked  and  beaten  and  sworn  at  him  with  foul 
oaths  until  he  could  bear  it  no  longer,  was  no 
kin  of  his,  though  the  other  had  claimed  the  au- 
thority to  abuse  him  as  he  abused  his  horses  and 
dogs  when  drink  and  ugliness  were  upon  him. 
If  only  he  could  find  Jim  again  after  all  these 
years,  perhaps  he  could  manage  to  get  the  truth 
out  of  him,  find  out  what  the  man  knew  of  him- 


24  WILD  WINGS 


self,  and  how  he  had  come  to  be  in  a  circus 
troupe.  Yet  after  all,  perhaps  it  was  better  not 
to  know.  The  facts  might  separate  him  from 
Tony  even  more  than  he  was  separated  by  his  ig- 
norance of  them.  As  it  was,  he  started  even,  with 
neither  honor  nor  shame  bequeathed  him  from  the 
past.  What  he  was,  he  was  in  himself.  And  if 
by  any  miracle  of  fortune  Tony  ever  did  come  to 
care  for  him  it  would  be  just  himself,  plain  Dick, 
that  she  would  love.  He  knew  that. 

The  thought  was  vaguely  comforting  and  he, 
too,  fell  adreaming.  Most  of  us  foiled  humans 
learn  to  play  the  game  of  make-believe  and  to  find 
such  consolation  as  we  may  therein.  Often  and 
often  in  his  lonely  hours  Dick  Carson  had  sum- 
moned Tony  Holiday  to  his  side,  a  Tony  as  bright 
and  beautiful  and  all  adorable  as  the  real  Tony, 
but  a  dream  Tony,  withal,  a  Tony  who  loved  him 
even  as  he  loved  her.  And  in  his  make-believe 
he  was  no  longer  a  nameless,  impecunious  cub  re- 
porter, but  a  man  who  had  arrived  somewhere, 
made  himself  worthy,  so  far  as  any  mere  man 
could,  of  the  supreme  gift  of  Tony's  caring. 

To-night,  too,  Dick  played  the  game  determinedly, 
but  somehow  he  found  its  consolation  rather 
meager,  as  cold  and  remote  as  the  sparkle  of  the 
June  stars,  millions  of  miles  away  up  there  in 
the  velvet  sky,  after  having  sat  by  the  side  of  the 
living,  breathing  Tony  and,  looking  into  her  happy 
eyes,  known  how  little,  how  very  little,  he  was  in 
her  thoughts.  She  liked  him  to  be  near  her,  he 
knew,  just  as  she  liked  her  roses  to  be  fragrant, 
but  neither  the  roses  nor  himself  was  a  vital  ne- 
cessity to  her.  She  could  do  very  well  without 
either.  That  was  the  pity  of  it. 

At  last  he  got  up  and  went  to  bed.  Falling  into 
troubled  sleep  he  dreamed  that  he  and  Tony  were 
wandering,  hand  in  hand,  in  the  Forest  of  Arden. 


WITH  ROSALIND  IN  ARDEN  25 

From  afar  off  came  the  sound  of  music,  airy  voices 
chanting : 

"When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding 
Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring." 

And  then  somebody  laughed  mockingly,  like 
Jacques,  and  somebody  else,  clad  in  motley  like 
Touchstone,  but  who  seemed  to  speak  in  Dick's  own 
voice,  murmured,  "Ay,  now  am  I  in  Arden,  the  more 
fool  I." 

And  even  with  these  words  the  forest  vanished 
and  Tony  with  it  and  the  dreamer  was  left  alone 
on  a  steep  and  dusty  road,  lost  and  aching  for  the 
missing  touch  of  her  hand. 

But  later  he  woke  to  the  song  of  a  thousand  birds 
greeting  the  new  day  with  full-throated  joy.  And 
his  heart,  too,  began  to  sing.  For  it  was  indeed 
a  new  day — a  day  in  which  he  should  see  Tony.  He 
was  irrationally  content.  Of  such  is  the  kingdom 
of  lad's  love! 


CHAPTER  III 
A  GIRL  WHO  COULDN'T  STOP  BEING  A  PRINCESS 

IN  the  lee  of  a  huge  gray  bowlder  on  the  summit 
of  Mount  Tom  sat  Philip  Lambert  and  Carlotta 
Cressy.  Below  them  stretched  the  wide  sweep  of 
the  river  valley,  amethyst  and  topaz  and  emerald, 
rich  with  lush  June  verdure,  soft  shadowed,  tran- 
quil, in  the  late  afternoon  sunshine.  They  had  been 
silent  for  a  little  time  but  suddenly  Carlotta  broke 
the  silence. 

"Phil,  do  you  know  why  I  brought  you  up  here?" 
she  asked.  As  she  spoke  she  drew  a  little  closer 
to  him  and  her  hand  touched  his  as  softly  as  a 
drifting  feather  or  a  blown  cherry  blossom  might 
have  touched  it. 

He  turned  to  look  at  her.  She  was  all  in  white 
like  a  lily,  and  otherwise  carried  out  the  lily  tradi- 
tion of  belonging  obviously  to  the  non-toiling-and- 
spinning  species,  justifying  the  arrangement  by 
looking  seraphically  lovely  in  the  fruits  of  the  loom 
and  labor  of  the  rest  of  the  world.  And  after  all, 
sheer  loveliness  is  an  end  in  itself.  Nobody  expects 
a  flower  to  give  account  of  itself  and  flower-like 
Carlotta  was  very,  very  lovely  as  she  leaned  against 
the  granite  rock  with  the  valley  at  her  feet.  So 
Phil  Lambert's  eyes  told  her  eloquently.  The  val- 
ley was  not  the  only  thing  at  Carlotta's  feet. 

"I  labored  under  the  impression  that  I  did  the 
bringing  up  myself,"  he  remarked,  his  hand  closing 
over  hers.  "However,  the  point  is  immaterial. 
You  are  here  and  I  am  here.  Is  there  a  cosmic 
reason?" 

26 


BEING  A  PRINCESS  27 

"There  is."  Carlotta's  voice  was  dreamy.  She 
watched  a  cloud  shadow  creep  over  the  green- 
plumed  mountain  opposite.  "I  brought  you  up 
here  so  that  you  could  propose  to  me  suitably  and 
without  interruption." 

"Huh!"  ejaculated  Phil  inelegantly,  utterly 
taken  by  surprise  by  Carlotta's  announcement. 
"Do  you  mind  repeating  that?  The  altitude  seems 
to  have,  affected  my  hearing." 

"You  heard  correctly.  I  said  I  brought  you  up 
here  to  propose  to  me." 

Phil  shrugged. 

"Too  much  'As  You  Like  It,' '  he  observed. 
"These  Shakespearean  heroines  are  a  bad  lot.  May 
I  ask  just  why  you  want  me  to  propose  to  you,  my 
dear?  Do  you  have  to  collect  a  certain  number  of 
scalps  by  this  particular  rare  day  in  June?  Or  is 
it  that  you  think  you  would  enjoy  the  exquisite 
pleasure  of  seeing  me  writhe  and  wriggle  when  you 
refuse  me?" 

Phil's  tone  was  carefully  light,  and  he  smiled  as 
he  asked  the  questions,  but  there  was  a  tight  drawn 
line  about  his  mouth  even  as  he  smiled. 

"Through  bush,  through  briar, 
Through   flood,    through   fire" 

he  had  followed  the  will  o'  the  wisp,  Carlotta,  for 
two  years  now,  against  his  better  judgment  and  to 
the  undoing  of  his  peace  of  mind  and  heart.  And 
play  days  were  over  for  Phil  Lambert.  The  work- 
a-day  world  awaited  him,  a  world  where  there 
would  be  neither  space  nor  time  for  chasing  phan- 
toms, however  lovely  and  alluring. 

"Don't  be  horrid,  Phil.  I'm  not  like  that.  You 
know  I'm  not,"  denied  Carlotta  reproachfully.  "I 
have  a  surprise  for  you,  Philip,  my  dear.  I  am 
going  to  accept  you." 


28  WILD  WINGS 


"No!"  exclaimed  Phil  in  unfeigned  amazement. 

"Yes,"  declared  Carlotta  firmly.  "I  decided  it 
in  church  this  morning  when  the  man  was  telling 
us  how  fearfully  real  and  earnest  life  is.  Not  that 
I  believe  in  the  real:earnestness.  I  don't.  It's 
bosh.  Life  was  made  to  be  happy  in  and  that  is 
why  I  made  up  my  mind  to  marry  you.  You  might 
manage  to  look  a  little  bit  pleased.  Anybody 
would  think  you  were  about  to  keep  an  appoint- 
ment with  a  dentist,  instead  of  having  the  inesti- 
mable privilege  of  proposing  to  me  with  the  inside 
information  that  I  am  going  to  accept  you." 

Phil  drew  away  his  hand  from  hers.  His  blue 
eyes  were  grave. 

"Don't,  Carlotta!  I  am  afraid  the  chap  was 
right  about  the  real-earnestness.  It  may  be  a  fine 
jest  to  you.  It  isn't  to  me.  You  see  I  happen  to 
be  in  love  with  you." 

"Of  course,"  murmured  Carlotta.  "That  is 
quite  understood.  Did  you  think  I  would  have 
bothered  to  drag  you  clear  up  on  a  mountain  top 
to  propose  to  me  if  I  hadn't  known  you  were  in  love 
with  me  and — I  with  you?"  she  added  softly. 

"Carlotta!  Do  you  mean  it?"  Phil's  whole 
heart  was  in  his  honest  blue  eyes. 

"Of  course,  I  mean  it.  Foolish!  Didn't  you 
know?  Would  I  have  tormented  you  so  all  these 
months  if  I  hadn't  cared?" 

"But,  Carlotta,  sweetheart,  I  can't  believe  you 
are  in  earnest  even  now.  Would  you  marry  me 
really?" 

"Would  I?  Will  I  is  the  verb  I  brought  you  up 
here  to  use.  Mind  your  grammar." 

Phil  clasped  his  hands  behind  him  fpr  safe  keep- 
ing. 

"But  I  can't  ask  you  to  marry  me — at  least  not 
to-day." 

Carlotta  made  a  dainty  little  face  at  him. 


BEING  A  PRINCESS  29 

"And  why  not?  Have  you  any  religious  scru- 
ples about  proposing  on  Sunday?" 

He  grinned  absent-mindedly  and  involuntarily  at 
that.  But  lie  shook  his  head  and  his  hands  stayed 
behind  his  back. 

"I  can't  propose  to  you  because  I  haven't  a  red 
cent  in  the  world — at  least  not  more  than  three  red 
cents.  I  couldn't  support  an  everyday  wife  on  'em, 
not  to  mention  a  fairy  princess." 

"As  if  that  mattered,"  dismissed  Carlotta  airily. 
"You  are  in  love  with  me,  aren't  you?" 

"Lord  help  me!"  groaned  Phil.  "You  know  I 
am." 

"And  I  am  in  love  with  you — for  the  present. 
You  had  better  ask  me  while  the  asking  is  good. 
The  wind  may  veer  by  next  week,  or  even  by  to- 
morrow. There  are  other  young  men  who  do  not 
require  to  be  commanded  to  propose.  They  spurt, 
automatically  and  often,  like  Old  Faithful." 

Phil's  ingenuous  face  clouded  over.  The  other 
young  men  were  no  fabrication,  as  he  knew  to  his 
sorrow.  He  was  forever  stumbling  over  them  at 
Carlotta's  careless  feet. 

"Don't,  Carlotta,"  he  begged  again.  "You  don't 
have  to  scare  me  into  subjection,  you  know.  If  I 
had  anything  to  justify  me  for  asking  you  to  marry 
me  I'd  do  it  this  minute  without  prompting.  You 
ought  to  know  that.  And  you  know  I'm  jealous 
enough  already  of  the  rest  of  'em,  without  your 
rubbing  it  in  now." 

"Don't  worry,  old  dear,"  smiled  Carlotta.  "I 
don't  care  a  snap  of  my  fingers  for  any  of  the  poor 
worms,  though  I  wouldn't  needlessly  set  foot  on  'em. 
As  for  justifications  1  have  a  whole  bag  of  them  up 
my  sleeve  ready  to  spill  out  like  a  pack  of  cards 
when  the  time  comes.  You  don't  have  to  concern 
yourself  in  the  least  about  them.  Your  business  is 
to  propose.  'Come,  woo  me,  woo,  me,  for  now  I  am 


30  WILD  WINGS 


in  a  holiday  humor  and  like'  enough  to  consent'  " — 
she  quoted  Tony's  lines  and,  leaning  toward  him, 
lifted  her  flower  face  close  to  his.  "Shall  I  count 
ten?"  she  teased. 

"Carlotta,  have  mercy.  You  are  driving  me 
crazy.  Pretty  thing  it  would  be  for  me  to  propose 
to  you  before  I  even  got  my  sheepskin.  Jolly 
pleased  your  father  would  be,  wouldn't  he,  to  be 
presented  with  a  jobless,  penniless  son-in-law?" 

"Nonsense !"  said  Carlotta  crisply.  "It  wouldn't 
matter  if  you  didn't  even  have  a  fig  leaf.  You 
wouldn't  be  either  jobless  or  penniless,  if  you  were 
his  son-in-law.  He  has  pennies  enough  for  all  of 
us  and  enough  jobs  for  you,  which  is  quite  sufficient 
unto  the  day.  Don't  be  stiff  and  silly,  Phil.  And 
don't  set  your  jaw  like  that.  I  hate  men  who  set 
their  jaws.  It  isn't  at  all  becoming.  I  don't  say 
my  dear  misguided  Daddy  wouldn't  raise  a  merry 
little  row  just  at  first.  He  often  raises  merry  little 
rows  over  things  I  want  to  do,  but  in  the  end  he  al- 
ways comes  round  to  my  way  of  thinking  and  wants 
precisely  what  I  want.  Everything  will  be  smooth 
as  silk,  I  promise  you.  I  know  what  1  am  talking 
about.  I've  thought  it  out  very  carefully.  I  don't 
make  up  my  mind  in  a  hurry,  but  when  I  do  decide 
what  I  want  I  take  it." 

"You  can't  take  this,"  said  Philip  Lambert. 

Carlotta  drew  back  and  stared,  her  violet  eyes 
very  wide  open.  Never  in  all  her  twenty  two  years 
had  any  man  said  "can't"  to  her  in  that  tone.  It 
was  a  totally  new  experience.  For  a  moment  she 
was  too  astounded  even  to  be  angiy. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked  a  little  limply. 

"I  mean  1  won't  take  your  father's  pennies  nor 
hold  down  a  pseudo-job  I'm  not  fitted  for,  even  for 
the  sake  of  being  his  son-in-law.  And  I  won't 
marry  you  until  I  am  able  to  support  you  on  the 
kind  of  job  I  am  fitted  for." 


BEING  A  PRINCESS  31 

"And  may  I  inquire  what  that  is?"  demanded 
Carlotta  sharply,  recovering  sufficiently  to  let  the 
thorns  she  usually  kept  gracefully  concealed  prick 
out  from  among  the  roses. 

Phil  laughed  shortly. 

"Don't  faint,  Carlotta.  I  am  eminently  fitted  to 
be  a  village  store-keeper.  In  fact  that  is  what  I 
shall  be  in  less  than  two  weeks.  I  am  going  into 
partnership  with  my  father.  The  new  sign  Stuart 
Lambert  and  Ron  is  being  painted  now." 

Carlotta  gasped. 

"Phil!  You  wouldn't.     You  can't." 

"Oh  yes,  Carlotta.  I  not  only  could  and  would 
but  I  am  going  to.  It  has  been  understood  ever 
since  I  first  went  to  college  that  when  I  was  out  I'd 
put  my  shoulder  to  the  wheel  beside  Dad's.  He  has 
been  pushing  alone  too  long  as  it  is.  He  needs  me. 
You  don't  know  how  happy  he  and  Mums  are  about 
it.  It  is  what  they  have*  dreamed  about  and 
planned,  for  years.  I'm  the  only  son,  you  know. 
It's  up  to  me." 

"But,  Phil!  It  is  an  awful  sacrifice  for  you." 
For  once  Carlotta  forgot  herself  completely. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  It  is  a  flourishing  concern — not 
just  a  two-by-four  village  shop — a  real  department 
store,  doing  real  business  and  making  real  money. 
Dad  built  it  all  up  himself,  too.  He  has  a  right  to 
be  proud  of  it  and  I  am  lucky  to  be  able  to  step  in 
and  enjoy  the  results  of  all  his  years  of  hard  work. 
I'm  not  fooling  myself  about  that.  Don't  get  the 
impression  I  am  being  a  martyr  or  anything  of  the 
sort.  I  most  distinctly  am  not." 

Carlotta  made  a  little  inarticulate  exclamation. 
Mechanically  she  counted  the  cars  of  the  train 
which  was  winding  its  black,  snake-like  trail  far 
down  below  them  in  the  valley.  It  hadn't  occurred 
to  her  that  the  moon  would  be  difficult  to  dislodge. 


32  WILD  WINGS 


Perhaps  Carlotta  didn't  know  much  about  moons, 
after  all. 

Phil  went  on  talking  earnestly,  putting  his  case 
before  her  as  best  he  might.  He  owed  it  to  Carlotta 
to  try  to  make  her  understand  if  he  could.  He 
thought  that,  under  all  the  whimsicalities,  it  was 
rather  fine  of  her  to  lay  down  her  princess  pride 
and  let  him  see  she  cared,  that  she  really  wanted 
him.  It  made  her  dearer,  harder  to  resist  than 
ever.  If  only  he  could  make  her  understand ! 

"You  see  I'm  not  fitted  for  city  life,"  he  explained. 
"I  hate  it.  I  like  to  live  wThere  everybody  has  a 
plot  of  green  grass  in  front  of  his  house  to  set  his 
rocking  chair-  in  Sunday  afternoons ;  where  people 
can  have  trees  that  they  know  as  well  as  they  know 
their  own  family  and  don't  have  to  go  to  a  park  to 
look  at  'em ;  where  they  can  grow  tulips  and  green 
peas — and  babies,  too,  if  the  lord  is  good  to  'em. 
I  want  to  plant  my  roots  where  people  are  neigh- 
borly and  interested  in  each  other  as  human  beings, 
not  shut  away  like  cave  dwellers  in  apartment 
houses,  not  knowing  or  caring  who  is  on  the  other 
side  of  the  wall.  I  should  get  to  hating  people  if 
I  had  to  be  crowded  into  a  subway  with  them,  day 
after  day,  treading  on  their  toes,  and  they  on  mine. 
Altogether  I  am  afraid  I  have  a  small  town  mind, 
sweetheart." 

He  smiled  at  Carlotta  as  he  made  the  confession, 
but  she  did  not  respond.  Her  face  gave  not  the 
slightest  indication  as  to  what  was  going  on  in  her 
mind  as  he  talked. 

"I  wouldn't  be  any  good  at  all  in  your  father's 
establishment.  I've  never  wanted  to  make  money 
on  the  grand  scale.  I  wouldn't  be  my  father's  son 
if  I  did.  I  couldn't  be  a  banker  or  a  broker  if  I 
tried,  and  I  don't  want  to  try." 

"Not  even  for  the  sake  of — having  me?"  Carlotta's 
voice  was  as  expressionless  as  her  face.  She  still 


BEING  A  PRINCESS  33 

watched  the  train,  almost  vanishing  from  sight  now 
in  the  far  distance,  leaving  a  cloud  of  ugly  black 
smoke  behind  it  to  mar  the  lustrous  azure  of  the 
June  sky. 

Phil,  too,  looked  out  over  the  valley.  He  dared 
not  look  at  Carlotta.  He  was  young  and  very  much 
in  love.  He  wanted  Carlotta  exceedingly.  For  a 
minute  everything  blurred  before  his  gaze.  It 
seemed  as  if  he  would  try  anything,  risk  anything, 
give  up  anything,  ride  rough  shod  over  anything, 
even  his  own  ideals,  to  gain  her.  It  was  a  tense 
moment.  He  came  very  near  surrendering  and 
thereby  making  himself,  and  Carlotta  too,  unhappy 
forever  after.  But  something  stronger  held  him 
back.  Oddly  enough  he  seemed  to  see  that  sign 
Stuart  Lambert  and  Son  written  large  all  over  the 
valley.  His  gaze  came  back  to  Carlotta.  Their 
eyes  met,  The  hardness  was  gone  from  the  girl's, 
leaving  a  wistful  tenderness,  a  sweet  surrender,  no 
man  had  ever  seen  there  before.  A  weaker  lad 
would  have  capitulated  under  that  wonderful, 
new  look  of  Carlotta's.  It  only  strengthened 
Philip  Lambert.  It  was  for  her  as  well  as  him- 
self. 

"I  am  sorry,  Carlotta,"  he  said.  "I  couldn't  do 
it,  though  I'd  give  you  my  heart  to  cut  up  into  pieces 
if  it  could  make  you  happy.  Maybe  I  would  risk  it 
for  myself.  But  I  can't  go  back  on  my  father,  even 
for  you." 

"Then  you  don't  love  me."  Carlotta's  rare  and 
lovely  tenderness  was  burned  away  on  the  instant 
in  a  quick  blaze  of  anger. 

"Yes  I  do,  dear.  It  is  because  I  love  you  that 
I  can't  do  it.  I  have  to  give  you  the  best  of  me,  not 
the  worst  of  me.  And  the  best  of  me  belongs  in 
Dunbury.  I  wish  I  could  make  you  understand. 
And  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  that,  since  ^  can't 
come  to  you,  you  could  care  enough  to  come  to  me. 


34  WILD  WINGS 


But  I  am  not  going  to  ask  it — not  now  anyway. 
I  haven't  the  right.  Perhaps  in  two  years  time,  if 
you  are  still  free,  I  shall ;  but  not  now.  It  wouldn't 
be  fair." 

"Two  years  from  now,  and  long  before,  I  shall 
be  married,"  said  Carlotta  with  a  sharp  little  me- 
tallic note  in  her  voice.  She  was  trying  to  keep 
from  crying  but  he  did  not  know  that  and  winced 
both  at  her  words  and  tone. 

"That  must  be  as  it  will,"  he  answered  soberly. 
"I  cannot  do  any  differently.  I  would  if  I  could. 
It — it  isn't  so  easy  to  give  you  up.  Oh,  Carlotta! 
I  love  you." 

And  suddenly,  unexpectedly  to  himself  and  Car- 
lotta, he  had  her  in  his  arms  and  was  covering  her 
face  with  kisses.  Carlotta's  cheeks  flamed.  She 
was  no  longer  a  lily,  but  a  red,  red  rose.  Never  in 
her  life  had  she  been  so  frightened,  so  ecstatic. 
With  all  her  dainty,  capricious  flirtations  she  had 
always  deliberately  fenced"  herself  behind  barriers. 
No  man  had  ever  held  her  or  kissed  her  like  this, 
the  embrace  and  kisses  of  a  lover  to  whom  she  be- 
longed. 

"Phil!  Don't,  dear — I  mean,  do,  dear — I  love 
you,"  she  whispered. 

But  her  words  brought  Phil  back  to  his  senses. 
His  arms  dropped  and  he  drew  away,  ashamed,  re- 
morseful. He  was  no  saint.  According  to  his  way 
of  thinking  a  man  might  kiss  a  girl  now  and  then, 
under  impulsion  of  moonshine  or  mischief,  but 
lightly  always,  like  thistledown.  A  man  didn't 
kiss  a  girl  as  he  had  just  kissed  Carlotta  unless  he 
had  the  right  to  marry  her.  It  wasn't  playing 
straight. 

"I'm  sorry,  Carlotta.  I  didn't  mean  to,"  he  said 
miserably. 

"I'm  not.  I'm  glad.  I  think  way  down  in  my 
heart  I've  always  wanted  you  to  kiss  me,  though  I 


BEING  A  PRINCESS  35 

didn't  know  it  would  be  like  that.  I  knew  your 
kisses  would  be  different,  because  you  are  differ- 
ent." 

"How  am  I  different?"  Phil's  voice  was  humble. 
In  his  own  eyes  he  seemed  pitifully  undiff  erent,  pre- 
cisely like  all  the  other  rash,  intemperate,  male 
fools  in  the  world. 

"You  are  different  every  way.  It  would  take  too 
long  to.  tell  you  all  of  them,  but  maybe  you  are 
chiefly  different  because  I  love  you  and  I  don't  love 
the  rest.  Except  for  Daddy.  I've  never  loved  any- 
body but  myself  before,  and  when  you  kissed  me 
I  just  seemed  to  feel  my  meness  going  right  out  of 
me,  as  if  I  stopped  belonging  to  myself  and  began 
to  belong  to  you  forever  and  ever.  It  scared  me 
but— I  liked  it." 

"You  darling!"  fatuously.  "Carlotta,  will  you 
marry  me?" 

It  was  out  at  last — the  words  she  claimed  she 
had  brought  him  up  the  mountain  to  say — the  words 
he  had  willed  not  to  speak. 

"Of  course.  Kiss  me  again,  Phil.  We'll  wire 
Daddy  tomorrow." 

"Wire  him  what?"  The  mention  of  Carlotta's 
father  brought  Phil  back  to  earth  with  a  jolt. 

"That  we  are  engaged  and  that  he  is  to  find  a 
suitable  job  for  you  so  we  can  be  married  right 
away,"  chanted  Carlotta  happily. 

Phil's  rainbow  vanished  almost  as  soon  as  it 
had  appeared  in  the  heavens.  He  drew  a  long 
breath. 

"Carlotta,  I  didn't  mean  that.  I  can't  be  engaged 
to  you  that  way.  I  meant — will  you  marry  me 
when  I  can  afford  to  have  a  fairy  princess  in  my 
home?" 

Carlotta  stared  at  him,  her  rainbow,  too,  fading. 

"You  did?"  she  asked  vaguely.     "I  thought — " 

"I  know,"  groaned  Phil.     "It  was  stupid  of  me — 


36  WILD  WINGS 


worse  than  stupid.  It  can't  be  helped  now  I  sup- 
pose. The  damage  is  done.  Shall  we  take  the  next 
car  down?  It  is  getting  late." 

He  rose  and  put  out  both  hands  to  help  her  to 
her  feet.  For  a  moment  they  stood  silent  in  front 
of  the  gray  bowlder.  The  end  of  the  world  seemed 
to  have  come  for  them  both.  It  was  like  Humpty 
Dumpty.  All  the  King's  horses  and  all  the  King's 
men  couldn't  restore  things  to  their  old  state  nor 
bring  back  the  lost  happiness  of  that  one  perfect 
moment  when  they  had  belonged  to  each  other  with- 
out reservations.  Carlotta  put  out  her  hand  and 
touched  Philip's. 

"Don't  feel  too  badly,  Phil,"  she  said.  "As  you 
say,  it  can't  be  helped — nothing  can  be  helped.  It 
just  had  to  be  this  way.  We  can't  either  of  us  make 
ourselves  over  or  change  the  way  we  look  at  tilings 
and  want  things.  I  wish  I  were  different  for  both 
our  sakes.  I  wish  I  were  big  enough  and  brave 
enough  and  fine  enough  to  say  I  would  marry  you 
anyway,  and  stop  being  a  princess.  But  I  don't 
dare.  I  know  myself  too  well.  I  might  think  I 
could  do  it  up  here  where  it  is  all  still  and  purple 
and  sweet  and  sacred.  But  when  we  got  down  to 
the  valley  again  I  am  afraid  I  couldn't  live  up  to  it, 
nor  to  you,  Philip,  my  king.  Forgive  me." 

Phil  bent  and  kissed  her  again — not  passionately 
this  time,  but  with  a  kind  of  reverent  solemnity  as 
if  he  were  performing  a  rite. 

"Never  mind,  sweetheart.  I  don't  blame  you  any 
more  than  you  blame  me.  We've  got  to  take  life 
as  we  find  it,  not  try  to  make  it  over  into  something 
different  to  please  ourselves.  If  some  day  you  meet 
the  man  who  can  make  you  happy  in  your  way,  I'll 
not  grudge  him  the  right.  I'm  not  sure  I  shall 
even  envy  him.  I've  had  my  moment." 

"But  Phil,  you  aren't  going  to  be  awfully  un- 
happy about  me?"  sighed  Carlotta,  "Promise  you 


BEING  A  PRINCESS  37 

won't.  You  know  I  never  wanted  to  hurt  the  moon, 
dear." 

Philip  shook  his  head. 

"Don't  worry  about  the  moon.  It  is  a  tough  old 
orb.  I  shan't  be  too  unhappy.  A  man  has  a  whole 
lot  of  things  beside  love  in  his  life.  I  am  not  going 
to  let  myself  be  such  a  fool  as  to  be  miserable  be- 
cause things  started  out  a  little  differently  from 
what  I  would  like  to  have  them."  His  smile  was 
brave  fiut  his  eyes  belied  the  smile  and  Carlotta's 
heart  smote  her. 

"You  will  forget  me,"  she  said.  It  was  half  a 
reproach,  half  a  command. 

Again  he  shook  his  head  in  denial. 

"Do  you  remember  the  queen  who  claimed  she 
had  Calais  stamped  on  her  heart?  Well,  open  mine 
a  hundred  years  from  now  and  you'll  read  Ga/r- 
lotta." 

"But  won't  you  ever  marry?"  pursued  Carlotta 
with  youth's  insistence  on  probing  wounds  to  the 
quick. 

"I  don't  know.  Probably,"  he  added  honestly. 
"A  man  is  a  poor  stick  in  this  world  without  a 
home  and  kiddies.  If  I  do  it  will  be  a  long  time 
yet  though.  It  will  be  many  a  year  before  I  see 
anybody  but  you,  no  matter  where  I  look." 

"But  I  am  horrid — selfish,  cowardly,  altogether 
horrid." 

"Are  you?"  smiled  Phil.  "I  wonder.  Anyway 
I  love  you.  Come  on,  dear.  We'll  have  to  hurry. 
The  car  is.  nearly  due." 

And,  as  twilight  settled  down  over  the  valley 
like  a  great  bird  brooding  over  its  nest,  Philip  and 
Carlotta  went  down  from  the  mountain. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  BOY  WHO  WASN'T  AN  ASS  BUT  BEHAVED  LIKE  ONE 

BACCALAUREATE  services  being  over  and  the 
graduates  duly  exhorted  to  the  wisdom  of  the  ages, 
the  latter  were  for  a  time  permitted  to  alight  from 
their  lofty  pedestal  in  the  public  eye  and  to  revert 
temporarily  to  the  comfortable  if  less  exalted  state 
of  being  plain  every  day  human  girls. 

While  Philip  and  Carlotta  went  up  on  the  heights 
fondly  believing  they  were  settling  their  destinies 
forever,  Tony  had  been  enjoying  an  afternoon  en 
famille  with  her  uncle  and  her  brother  Ted. 

Suddenly  she  looked  at  her  watch  and  sprang  up 
from  the  arm  of  her  uncle's  chair  on  which  she  had 
been  perched,  chattering  and  content,  for  a  couple 
of  hours. 

"My  goodness!  It  is  most  four  o'clock.  Dick 
will  be  here  in  a  minute.  May  I  call  up  the  garage 
and  ask  them  to  send  the  car  around?  I'm  dying 
for  a  ride.  We  can  go  over  to  South  Hadley  and 
get  the  twins,  if  you'd  like.  I'm  sure  they  must 
have  had  enough  of  Mt.  Holyoke  by  this  time." 

"Car's  out  of  commission,"  grunted  Ted  from  be- 
hind his  sporting  shee.t. 

"Out  of  commission?  Since  when?"  inquire/! 
Doctor  Holiday.  "It  was  all  right  when  you  took 
it  to  the  garage  last  night." 

"I  went  out  for  a  joy  ride  and  had  a  smash  up/' 
explained  his  nephew  nonchalantly,  and  still  hidden 
behind  the  newspaper. 

"Oh  Ted!     How  could  you  when  you  know  we 

38 


A  BOY  WHO  WASN'T  AN  ASS  39 

want  to  use  the  car  every  minute?"  There  was 
sharp  dismay  and  reproach  in  Tony's  voice. 

"Well,  I  didn't  smash  it  on  purpose,  did  I?" 
grumbled  her  brother,  throwing  down  the  paper. 
"I'm  sorry,  Tony.  But  it  can't  be  helped  now. 
You'd  better  be  thankful  I'm  not  out  of  commission 
myself.  Came  darn  near  being." 

"Oh  Ted!"  There  was  only  concern  and  sym- 
pathy in  his  sister's  exclamation  this  time.  Tony 
adored  her  brothers.  She  went  over  to  Ted  now, 
scrutinizing  him  as  if  she  half  expected  to  see  him 
minus* an  arm  or  a  leg.  "You  weren't  hurt?"  she 
begged  reassurance. 

"Nope — nothing  to  signify.  Got  some  purple 
patches  on  my  person  and  a  twist  to  my  wrist,  but 
that's  all.  I  was  always  a  lucky  devil.  Got  more 
lives  than  a  cat." 

He  was  obviously  trying  to  carry  matters  off 
lightly,  but  never  once  did  he  meet  his  uncle's-  eyes, 
though  he  was  quite  aware  they  were  fixed  on  him. 

Tony  sighed  and  shook  her  head,  troubled. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  take  such  risks,"  she 
mourned.  "Some  day  you'll  get  dreadfully  hurt. 
Please  be  careful.  Uncle  Phil,"  she  appealed  to 
the  higher  court,  "do  tell  him  he  mustn't  speed  so. 
He  won't  listen  to  me." 

"If  Ted  hasn't  learned  the  folly  of  speeding  by 
now,  I  am  afraid  that  nothing  I  can  say  will  have 
much  effect.  I  wonder — 

Just  here  the  telephone  interrupted  with  an  an- 
nouncement that  Mr.  Carson  was  waiting  down- 
stairs. Tony  flew  from  the  phone  to  dab  powder  on 
her  nose. 

"Since  we  can't  go  riding  I  think  I'll  take  Dick 
for  a  walk  in  Paradise,"  she  announced  into  the 
mirror.  "Will  you  come,  too,  Uncle  Phil?" 

"No,  thank  you,  dear.  Run  along  and  tell  Dick 
we  expect  him  back  to  supper  with  us." 


40  WILD  WINGS 


The  doctor  held  open  the  door  for  his  niece,  then 
turned  back  to  Ted,  who  was  also  on  his  feet  now, 
murmuring  something  about  going  out  for  a  stroll. 

"Wait  a  bit,  son.  Suppose  you  tell  me  first  pre- 
cisely what  happened  last  night." 

"Did  tell  you."  The  boy  fumbled  sulkily  at  the 
leaves  of  a  magazine  that  lay  on  the  table.  "I  took 
the  car  out  and,  when  I  was  speeding  like  Sam  Hill 
out  on  the  Florence  road,  I  struck  a  hole.  She 
stood  up  on  her  ear  and  pitched  u — er — me  out  in 
the  gutter.  Stuck  her  own  nose  into  a  telephone 
pole.  I  telephoned  the  garage  people  to  go  after 
her  this  morning.  They  told  me  a  while  ago  she  was 
pretty  badly  stove  up  and  it  will  probably  take  a 
couple  of  weeks  to  get  her  in  order."  The  story 
came  out  jerkily  and  the  narrator  kept  his  eyes 
consistently  floorward  during  the  recital. 

"Is  that  all?" 

"What  more  do  you  want?"  curtly.  "I  said  I 
was  sorry,  if  that  is  what  you  mean." 

"It  isn't  what  I  mean,  Ted.  I  assume  you  didn't 
deliberately  go  out  to  break  my  car  and  that  you  are 
not  particularly  proud  of  the  outcome  of  your  joy 
ride.  I  mean,  exactly  what  I  asked.  Have  you  told 
me  the  whole  story?" 

Ted  was  silent,  mechanically  rolling  the  corner 
of  the.  rug  under  his  foot.  His  uncle  studied  the 
good-looking,  unhappy  young  face.  His  mind 
worked  back  to  that  inadvertent  "u — er — me"  of 
the  confession. 

"Were  you  alone?"  he  asked.    • 

A  scarlet  flush  swept  the  lad's  face,  died  away, 
leaving  it  a  little  white. 

"Yes." 

The  answer  was  low  but  distinct.  It  was  like 
a  knife  thrust  to  the  doctor.  In  all  the  eight  years 
in  which  he  had  fathered  Ned's  sons,  both  before 
and  since  his  brother's  death,  never  once  to  his 


A  BOY  WHO  WASN'T  AN  ASS  41 

knowledge  had  either  one  lied  to  him,  even*  to  save 
himself  discomfort,  censure  or  punishment.  With 
all  their  boyish  vagaries  and  misdeeds,  it  had  been 
the  one  thing  he  could  count  on  absolutely,  their 
unflinching,  invariable  honesty.  Yet,  surely  as  the 
June  sun  was  shining  outside,  Ted  had  lied  to  him 
just  now.  Why?  Eash  twenty  was  too  young  to 
go  its  way  unchallenged  and  unguided.  He  was 
responsible  for  the  lad  whose  dead  father  had  com- 
mitted him  to  his  charge. 

Only  a  few  weeks  before  his  death  Ned  had 
written  with  curious  prescience,  "If  I  go  out  any 
time,  Phil,  I  know  you  will  look  after  the  children 
as  I  would  myself  or  better.  Keep  your  eye  on  Ted 
especially.  His  heart  is  in  the  right  place,  but  he 
has  a  reckless-  devil  in  him  that  will  bring  him  and 
all  of  us  to  grief  if  it  isn't  laid." 

Doctor  Holiday  went  over  and  laid  a  hand  on 
each  of  the  lad's  hunched  shoulders. 

"Look  at  me,  Ted/'  he  commanded  gently. 

The  old  habit  of  obedience  strong  in  spite  of  his 
twenty  years,  Ted  raised  his  eyes,  but  dropped  them 
again  on  the  instant  as  if  they  were  lead  weighted. 

"That  is  the  first  time  you  ever  lied  to  me,  I 
think,  lad,"  said  the  doctor  quietly. 

A  quiver  passed  over  the  boy's  face,  but  his  lips 
set  tighter  than  ever  and  he  pulled  away  from  his 
uncle's  hands  and  turned,  staring  out  of  the  window 
at  a  rather  dusty  and  bedraggled  looking  hydrangea 
on  the  lawn. 

"I  wonder  if  it  was  necessary,"  the  quiet  voice 
continued.  "I  haven't  the  slightest  wish  to  be  hard 
on  you.  I  just  want  to  understand.  You  know 
that,  son,  don't  you?" 

The  boy's  head  went  up  at  that.  His  gaze  de- 
serted the  hydrangea,  for  the  first  time  that  day, 
met  his  uncle's,  squarely  if  somewhat  miserably. 

"It  isn't  that,  Uncle  Phil.     You  have  every  right 


42  WILD  WINGS 


to  come  down  on  me.  I  hadn't  any  business  to  have 
the  car  out  at  all,  much  less  take  fool  chances  with 
it.  But  honestly  I  have  told  you  all — all  I  can 
tell.  I  did  lie  to  you  just  now.  I  wasn't  alone. 
There  was  a — a  girl  with  me." 

Ted's  face  was  hot  again  as  he  made  the  confes- 
sion. 

"I  see,"  mused  the  doctor.     "Was  she  hurt?" 

"No — that  is — not  much.  She  hurt  her  shoulder 
some  and  cut  her  head  a  bit."  The  details  came 
out  reluctantly  as  if  impelled  by  the  doctor's  steady 
eyes.  "She  telephoned  me  today  she  was  all  right. 
It's  a  miracle  we  weren't  both  killed  though.  We 
might  have  been  as  easy  as  anything.  You  said 
just  now  nothing  you  could  say  would  make  me 
have  sense  about  speeding.  I  guess  what  happened 
last  night  ought  to  knock  sense  into  me  if  anything 
could.  I  say,  Uncle  Phil — ; 

"Well?"  as  the  boy  paused  obviously  embarrassed. 

"If  you  don't  mind  I'd  rather  not  say  anything 
more  about  the  girl.  She — I  guess  she'd  rather 
I  wouldn't,"  he  wound  up  confusedly. 

"Very  well.  That  is  your  affair  and  hers.  Thank 
you  for  coming  halfway  to  meet  me.  It  made  it 
easier  all  around." 

The  doctor  held  out  his  hand  and  the  boy  took  it 
eagerly. 

"You  are  great  to  me,  Uncle  Phil — lots  better 
than  I  deserve.  Please  don't  think  I  don't  see  that. 
And  truly  I  am  awfully  ashamed  of  smashing  the 
car,  and  not  telling  you,  as  I  ought  to  have  this 
morning,  and  spoiling  Tony's  fun  and — and  every- 
thing." Ted  swallowed  something  down  hard  as  if 
the  "everything"  included  a  good  deal.  "I  don't 
see  why  I  have  to  be  always  getting  into  scrapes. 
Can't  seem  to  help  it,  somehow.  Guess  I  was  made 
that  way,  just  as  Larry  was  born  steady." 

"That  is  a  spineless  jellyfish  point  of  view,  Ted. 


A  BOY  WHO  WASN'T  AN  ASS  43 

Don't  fool  yourself  with  it.  There  is  no  earthly 
reason  why  you  should  keep  drifting  from  one  es- 
capade to  another.  Get  some  backbone  into  you, 
son." 

Ted's  face  clouded  again  at  that,  though  he  wasn't 
sulky  this  time.  He  was  remembering  some  other 
disagreeable  confessions  he  had  to  make  before 
long.  He  knew  this  was  a  good  opening  for  them, 
but  somehow^  he  could  not  drive  himself  to  follow 
it  up.  He  could  only  digest  a  limited  amount  of 
humble  pie  at  a  time  and  had  already  swallowed 
nearly  all  he  could  stand.  Still  he  skirted  warily 
along  the  edge  of  the  dilemma. 

"I  suppose  you  think  I  made  an  awful  ass  of  my- 
self at  college  this  year,"  he  averred  gloomily. 

"I  don't  think  it.  I  know  it."  The  doctor's  eyes 
twinkled  a  little.  Then  he  grew  sober.  "Why  do 
you,  Ted?  You  aren't  really  an  ass,  you  know.  If 
you  were,  there  might  be  some  excuse  for  behaving 
like  one." 

Ted  flushed. 

"That's  what  Larry  told  me  last  spring  when  he 
was  pitching  into  me  about — well  about  something. 
I  don't  know  why  I  do,  Uncle  Phil,  honest  I  don't. 
Maybe  it  is  because  I  hate  college  so  and  all  the 
stale  old  stuff  they  try  to  cram  down  our  throats. 
I  get  so  mad  and  sick  and  disgusted  with  the  whole 
thing  that  I  feel  as  if  I  had  to  do  something  to 
offset  it — something  that  is  real  and  live,  even  if 
it  isn't  according  to  rules  and  regulations.  I  hate 
rules  and  regulations.  I'm  not  a  mummy  and  I 
don't  want  to  be  made  to  act  as  if  I  were.  I'll  be  a 
long  time  dead  and  I  want  to  get  a  whole  lot  of  fun 
out  of  life  first.  I  hate  studying.  I  want  to  do 
things,  Uncle  Phil—" 

"Well?" 

"I  don't  want  to  go  back  to  college." 

"What  do  you  want  to  do?" 


44  WILD  WINGS 


"Join  the  Canadian  forces.  It  makes  me  sick 
to  have  a  war  going  on  and  me  not  in  it.  Dad  quit 
college  for  West  Point  and  everybody  thought  it 
was  all  right.  I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  get  into 
it.  I  wouldn't  fall  down  on  that.  I  promise  you. 
I'd  make  you*  proud  of  me  instead  of  ashamed  the 
way  you  are  now."  The  boy's  voice  and  eyes  were 
unusually  earnest. 

His  uncle  did  not  answer  instantly.  He  knew 
that  there  was  some  truth  in  his  nephew's  analysis 
of  the  situation.  It  was  his  uneasy,  superabundant 
energy  and  craving  for  action  that  made  him  find 
the  more  or  less  restricted  life  of  the  college,  a 
burden,  a  bore  and  an  exasperation,  and  drove  him 
to  crazy  escapades  and  deeds  of  flagrant  lawless- 
ness. He  needed  no  assurance  that  the  boy  would 
not  "fall  down"  at  soldiering.  He  would  take  to 
it  as  a  duck  to  water.  And  the  discipline  might 
be  the  making  of  him,  prove  the  way  to  exorcise  the 
devil.  Still  there  were  other  considerations  which 
to  him  seemed  paramount  for  the  time  at  least. 

"I  understand  how  you  feel,  Ted,"  he  said  at  last. 
"If  we  get  into  the  war  ourselves  I  won't  say  a  word 
against  your  going.  I  should  expect  you  to  go. 
We  all  would.  But  in  the  meantime  as  I  see  it 
you  are  not  quite  a  free  agent.  Granny  is  old  and 
very,  very  feeble.  She  hasn't  gotten  over  your 
father's  death.  She  grieves  over  it  still.  If  you 
went  to  war  I  think  it  would  kill  her.  She  couldn't 
bear  the  strain  and  anxiety.  Patience,  laddie. 
You  don't  want  to  hurt  her,  do  you?" 

"I  s'pose  not,"  said  Ted  a  little  grudgingly. 
"Then  it  is  no,  Uncle  Phil?" 

"I  think  it  ought  to  be  no  of  your  own  will  for 
Granny's  sake.  We  don't  live  to  ourselves  alone 
in  this  world.  We  can't.  But  aside  from  Granny 
I  am  not  at  all  certain  I  should  approve  of  your 
leaving  college  just  because  it  doesn't  happen  to 


A  BOY  WHO  WASN'T  AN  ASS  45 

be  exciting  enough  to  meet  your  fancy  and  means 
work  you  are  too  lazy  and  irresponsible  to  settle 
down  to  doing.  Looks  a  little  like  quitting  to  me 
and  Holidays  aren't  usually  quitters,  you  know." 

He  smiled  at  the  boy  but  Ted  did  not  smile  back. 
The  thrust  about  Holidays  and  quitters  went  home. 

"I  suppose  it  has  got  to  be  college  again  if  you 
say  so/'  he  said  soberly  after  a  minute.  "Thank 
heaven  there  are  three  months  ahead  clear  though 
first." 

"To  play  in?" 

"Well,  yes.  Why  not?  It  is  all  right  to  play 
in  vacation,  isn't  it?"  the  boy  retorted,  a  shade 
aggressively. 

"Possibly-  if  you  have  earned  the  vacation  by 
working  beforehand." 

Ted's  eyes  fell  at  that.  This  was  dangerously 
near  the  ground  of  those  uncomfortable,  inevitable 
confessions  which  he  meant  to  put  off  as  long  as 
possible. 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  go  out  now?"  he  asked  with 
unusual  meekness  after  a  moment's  rather  awkward 
silence. 

"No,  indeed.  Go  ahead.  I've  had  my  say.  Be 
back  for  supper  with  us?" 

"Dunno."  And  Ted  disappeared  into  the  ad- 
joining room  which  connected  with  his  uncle's. 
In  a  moment  he  was  back,  expensive  panama  hat 
in  one  hand  and  a  lighted  cigarette  held  jauntily 
in  the  other.  "I  meant  to  tell  you  you  could  take 
the  car  repairs  out  of  my  allowance,"  he  remarked 
casually  but  with  his  eye  shrewdly  on  his  guardian 
as  he  made  the  announcement. 

"Very  well,"  replied  the  latter  quietly.  Then 
he  smiled  a  little  seeing  his  nephew's  crestfallen 
expression.  "That  wasn't  just  what  you  wanted 
me  to  say,  was  it?"  he  added. 

"Not  exactly,"  admitted  the  boy  with  a  return- 


46  WILD  WINGS 


ing  grin.     "All  right,  Uncle  Phil.     I'm  game.     I'll 
pay  up." 

A  moment  later  his  uncle  heard  his  whistle  as  he 
went  down  the  driveway  apparently  as  care  free 
as  if  narrow  escapes  from  death  were  nothing  in 
his  young  life.  The  doctor  shook  his  head  dubi- 
ously as  he  watched  him  from  the  window.  He 
would  have  felt  more  dubious  still  had  he  seen  the 
boy  board  a  Florence  car  a  few  minutes  later  on 
his  way  to  keep  a  rendezvous  with  the  girl  about 
whom  he  had  not  wished  to  talk. 


CHAPTER  V 

WHEN   YOUTH   MEETS   YOUTH 

THREE  quarters  of  an  hour  later  Ted  was  seated 
on  a  log,  near  a  small  rustic  bridge,  beneath  which 
flowed  a  limpid,  gurgling  stream.  On  a  log  beside 
him  sat  a  girl  of  perhaps  eighteen  years,  exceedingly 
handsome  with  the  flaming  kind  of  beauty  like  a 
poppy's,  striking  to  the  eye,  shallow-petaled.  She 
was  vividly  effective  against  the  background  of  deep 
green  spruces  and  white  birch  in  her  bright  pink 
dress  and  large  drooping  black  hat.  Her  coloring 
was  brilliant,  her  lips  full,  scarlet,  ripely  sensuous. 
Beneath  her  straight  black  brows  her  sparkling, 
black  eyes  gleamed  with  restless  eagerness.  An 
ugly,  jagged,  still  fresh  wound  showed  beneath  a 
carefully  curled  fringe  of  hair  on  her  forehead. 

"I  don't  like  meeting  you  this  way,"  Ted  was 
saying.  "Are  you  sure  your  grandfather  would 
have  cut  up  rough  if  I  had  come  to  the  house  and 
called  properly?" 

"You  betcher,"  said  his  companion  promptly. 
"You  don't  know  grandpa,  He's  death  on  young 
men.  He  won't  let  one  come  within  a  mile  of  me 
if  he  can  help  it.  He'd  throw  a  fit  if  he  knew  I 
was  here  with  you  now.  We  should  worry.  What 
he  don't  know  won't  hurt  him,"  she  concluded  with 
a  toss  of  her  head.  Then,  as  Ted  looked  dubious, 
she  added,  "You  just  leave  grandpa  to  me.  If  you 
had  had  your  way  you  would  have  spilled  the  beans 
by  telephoning  me  this  morning  at  the  wrong  time. 
See  how  much  better  I  fixed  it.  I  told  him  a  piece 

47 


48  WILD  WINGS 


of  wood  flew  up  and  hit  me  when  I  was  chopping 
kindling  before  breakfast  and  that  my  head  ached 
so  I  didn't  feel  like  going  to  church.  Then  the  min- 
ute he  was  out  of  the  yard  I  ran  to  the  'phone  and 
got  you  at  the  hotel.  It  was  perfectly  simple  that 
way — slick  as  grease.  Easiest  thing  in  the  world 
to  make  a  date.  We  couldn't  have  gotten  away 
with  it  otherwise." 

Ted  still  looked  dubious.  The  phrase  "gotten 
away  with  it"  jarred.  At  the  moment  he  was  not 
particularly  proud  of  their  mutual  success  in 
"getting  away  with  it."  The  girl  wasn't  his  kind. 
He  realized  that,  now  he  saw  her  for  the  first  time 
in  daylight. 

She  had  looked  all  right  to  him  on  the  train 
night  before  last.  Indeed  he  had  been  distinctly 
fascinated  by  her  flashing,  gypsy  beauty,  ready 
laughter  and  quick,  keen,  half  "fresh"  repartee 
when  he  had  started  a  casual  conversation  with  her 
when  they  chanced  to  be  seat  mates  from  Holyoke 
on. 

Casual  conversations  were  apt  to  turn  into  casual 
flirtations  with  Ted  Holiday.  Afterward  he  wasn't 
sure  whether  she  had  dared  him  or  he  had  dared 
her  to  plan  the  midnight  joy  ride  which  had  so 
narrowly  missed  ending  in  a  tragedy.  Anyway  it 
had  seemed  a  jolly  lark  at  the  time — a  test  of  the 
mettle  and  mother  wit  of  both  of  them  to  "get  away 
with  it." 

And  she  had  looked  good  to  him  last  night  when 
he  met  her  at  the  appointed  trysting  place  after 
"As  You  Like  It."  She  had  come  out  of  the  shad- 
ows of  the  trees  behind  which  she  had  been  lurking, 
wearing  a  scarlet  tam-o'-shanter  and  a  long  dark 
cloak,  her  eyes  shining  like  January  stars.  He  had 
liked  her  nerve  in  coming  out  like  that  to  meet 
him  alone  at  midnight.  He  had  liked  the  way  she 
"sassed"  him  back  and  put  him  in  his  place,  when 


WHEN  YOUTH  MEETS  YOUTH  49 

he  had  tried  impudently  enough  to  kiss  her.  He 
had  liked  the  way  she  laughed  when  he  asked  her 
if  she  was  afraid  to  speed,  on  the  home  stretch.  It 
was  her  laugh  that  had  spurred  him  on,  intoxicated 
him,  made  him  send  the  car  leaping  faster  and  still 
faster,  obeying  his  reckless  will. 

Then  the  crash  had  come.  It  was  indeed  a  mir- 
acle that  they  had  not  both  been  killed.  No  thanks 
to  the  rash  young  driver  that  they  had  not  been. 
It  woTild  be  many  a  day  before  Ted  Holiday  would 
forget  that  nightmare  of  dread  and  remorse  which 
took  possession  of  him  as*  he  pulled  himself  to  his 
feet  and  went  over  to  where  the  girl's  motionless 
form  lay  on  the  grass,  her  face  dead  white,  the  blood 
flowing  from  her  forehead. 

Never  had  he  been  so  thankful  for  anything  in 
his  life  as  he  was  when  he  saw  her  bright  eyes  snap 
open,  and  heard  her  unsteady  little  giggle  as  she 
murmured,  "My,  but  I  thought  I  was  dead,  didn't 
you?" 

Game  to  her  fingertips  she  had  been.  Ted  ac- 
knowledged that,  even  now  that  the  glamour  had 
worn  off.  Never  once  had  she  whimpered  over  her 
injuries,  never  hurled  a  single  word  of  blame  at 
him  for  the  misadventure  that  had  come  within  a 
hair's  breadth  of  being  the  last  for  them  both. 

"It  wasn't  a  bit  more  your  fault  than  mine,"  she 
had  waived  aside  his  apologies.  "And  it  was  great 
while  it  lasted.  I  wouldn't  have  missed  it  for 
anything,  though  I'm  glad  I'm  not  dead  before  I've 
had  a  chance  to  really  live.  All  I  ask  is  that  you 
won't  tell  a  soul  I  was  out  with  you.  Grandpa 
would  think  I  was  headed  straight  for  purgatory  if 
he  knew." 

"I  won't,"  Ted  had  promised  glibly  enough,  and 
had  kept  his  promise  even  at  the  cost  of  lying  to 
his  uncle,  a  memory  which  hurt  like  the  toothache 
even  now. 


50  WILD  WINGS 


But  looking  at  the  girl  now  in  her  tawdry,  in- 
appropriate garb  he  suffered  a  revulsion  of  feeling. 
What  he  had  admired  in  her  as.  good  sport  quality 
seemed  cheap  now,  his  own  conduct  even  cheaper. 
His  reaction  against  himself  was  fully  as  poignant 
as  his  reaction  against  her.  He  was  suddenly 
ashamed  of  his  joy  ride,  ashamed  that  he  had  ever 
wished  or  tried  to  kiss  her,  ashamed  that  he  had 
fallen  in  with  her  suggestion  for  a  clandestine 
meeting  this  afternoon. 

Possibly  Madeline  sensed  that  he  was  cold  to 
her  charms  at  the  moment.  She  flashed  a  shrewd 
glance  at  him. 

"You  don't  like  one  as  well  to-day  as  you  did  last 
night,"  she  challenged. 

Caught,  Ted  tried  half-heartedly  to  make  denial, 
but  the  effort  was  scarcely  a  success.  He  had  yet 
to  learn  the  art  of  lying  gracefully  to  a  lady. 

"You  don't,"  she  repeated.  "You  needn't  try  to 
pretend  you  do.  You  can't  fool  me.  You're  get- 
ting1 cold  feet  already.  You're  remembering  I'm 
just — just  a  pick-up." 

Ted  winced  again  at  that.  He  did  not  like  the 
word  "pick-up"  either,  though  to  his  shame  he 
hadn't  been  above  the  thing  itself. 

"Don't  talk  like  that,  Madeline.  You  know  I 
like  you.  You  were  immense  last  night.  Any 
other  girl  I  know,  except  my  sister  Tony,  would 
have  had  hysterics  and  fainting  fits  and  lord  knows 
what  else  with  half  the  excuse  you  had.  And  you 
never  made  a  bit  of  fuss  about  your  head,  though 
it  must  have  hurt  like  the  deuce.  I  say,  you  don't 
think  it  is  going  to  leave  a  scar,  do  you?" 

He  leaned  forward  with  genuine  concern  to  ex- 
amine the  red  wound. 

"I  think  it  is  more  than  likely.  Lot  you'll  care, 
Ted  Holiday.  You'll  never  come  back  to  see 
whether  it  leaves  a  scar  or  not.  See  that  bee  over 


WHEN  YOUTH  MEETS  YOUTH  51 

there  nosing  around  that  elderberry.  Think  he'll 
corne  back  next  week?  Not  much.  I  know  your 
kind,"  scornfully. 

That  bit  into  the  lad's  complacency. 

"Of  course,  I  care  and  of  course,  I'll  come  back," 
he  protested,  though  a  moment  before  he  had  had 
not  the  slightest  wish  or  purpose  to  see  her  again, 
rather  to  the  contrary. 

"To  see  whether  there  is  a  scar?" 

"To  see  you,"  he  played  up  gallantly. 

Her  hard  young  face  softened. 

"Will  you,  honest,  Ted  Holiday?  Will  you  come 
back?" 

She  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  his.  Her  eyes 
were  suddenly  wistful,  gentle,  beseeching. 

"Sure  I'll  come  back.  Why  wouldn't  I?"  The 
touch  of  her  hand,  the  new  softness,  almost  pathos 
of  her  mood  touched  him,  appealed  to  the  chivalry 
always  latent  in  a  Holiday. 

He  heard  her  breath  come  quickly,  saw  her  full 
bosom  heave,  felt  the  warm  pressure  of  her  hand. 
He  wanted  to  put  his  arm  around  her  but  he  did 
not  follow  the  impulse.  The  code  of  Holiday 
"noblesse  oblige"  was  operating. 

"I  wish  I  could  believe  that,"  Madeline  sighed, 
looking  down  into  the  water  which  whirled  and 
eddied  in  white  foam  and  splash,  over  the  rocks. 
"I'd  like  to  think  you  really  wanted  to  come — 
really  cared  about  seeing  me  again.  I  know  I'm 
not  your  kind." 

He  started  involuntarily  at  her  voicing  unexpec- 
tedly his  own  recent  thought. 

"Oh,  you  needn't  be  surprised,"  she  threw  at  him 
half  angrily.  "Don't  you  suppose  I  know  that 
better  than  you  do.  Don't  you  suppose  I  know 
what  the  girls  you  are  used  to  look  like?  Well, 
I  do.  I've  watched  'em,  on  the  street,  on  the 
campus,  in  church,  everywhere.  I've  even  seen 


52  WILD  WINGS 


your  sister  and  watched  her,  too.  Somebody 
pointed  her  out  to  me  once  when  she  had  made  a 
hit  in  a  play  and  I've  seen  her  at  Glee  Club  con- 
certs and  at  vespers  in  the  choir.  She  is  lovely — 
lovely  the  way  I'd  like  to  be.  It  isn't  that  she's 
any  prettier.  She  isn't.  It's  just  that  she's  dif- 
ferent— acts  different — looks  different — dresses 
different  from  me.  1  can't  make  myself  like  her 
and  the  rest,  no  matter  how  I  try.  And  I  do  try. 
You  don't  know  how  hard  I  try.  I  got  this  dress 
because  I  saw  your  sister  Tony  wearing  a  pink 
dress  once.  I  thought  maybe  it  would  make  me 
look  more  like  her.  But  it  doesn't.  It  makes  me 
look  more  not  like  her  than  ever,  doesn't  it?"  she 
appealed  rather  disconcertingly.  "It's  horrid.  I 
hate  it." 

"I  don't  know  much  about  girls'  dresses,"  said 
Ted.  "But,  now  you  speak  of  it,  maybe  it  would 
be  prettier  if  it  were  a  little — "  he  paused  for  a 
word — "quieter,"  he  decided  on.  "Do  you  ever 
wear  white?  Tony  wears  it  a  lot  and  I  think  she 
looks  nice  in  it." 

"I've  got  a  white  dress.  I  thought  about  putting 
it  on  to-day.  But  somehow  it  didn't  look  quite  nice 
enough.  I  thought — well,  I  thought  I  looked  hand- 
somer in  the  pink.  I  wanted  to  look  pretty — for 
you."  The  last  was  very  low — scarcely  audible. 

"You  look  good  to  me  all  right,"  said  the  boy 
heartily  and  he  meant  it.  He  thought  she  looked 
prettier  at  the  moment  than  she  had  looked  at  any 
time  since  he  had  made  her  acquaintance. 

Perhaps  he  was  right.  She  had  laid  aside  for 
once  her  mask  of  hard  boldness  and  was  just  a 
simple,  humble,  rather  pathetic  little  girl,  voicing 
secret  aspirations  toward  a  fineness  life  had  denied 
her. 

"I  say,  Madeline,"  Ted  went  on.     "You  don't— 
meet  other  chaps  the  way  you  met  me  to-day,  do 


WHEN  YOUTH  MEETS  YOUTH  53 

you?"  Set  the  blind  to  lead  the  blind!  If  there 
was  anything  absurd  in  scapegrace  Ted's  turning 
mentor  he  was  unconscious  of  the  absurdity,  was 
exceedingly  in  earnest. 

"What's  that  to  you?"  She  snapped  the  mask 
back  into  place. 

"Nothing— that  is— I  wouldn't— that's  all." 

She  laughed  shrilly. 

"You're  a  pretty  one  to  talk,"  she  scoffed. 

Ted  flushed. 

"I  Jmow  I  am.  See  here,  Madeline.  You're 
dead  "right.  I  ought  not  to  have  taken  you  out 
last  night.  I  ought  not  to  have  let  you  meet  me 
here  to-day." 

"I  made  you — I  made  you  do  both  those  things." 

Ted  shook  his  head  at  that. 

"A  man's  to  blame  always,"  he  asserted. 

"No,  he  isn't,"  denied  Madeline.  "A  girl's  to 
blame  always." 

They  stared  at  each  other  a  moment  while  the 
brook  tinkled  through  the  silence.  Then  they  both 
laughed  at  the  solemnity  of  their  contradictions. 

"But  there  isn't  a  bit  of  harm  done,"  went  on 
Madeline.  "You  see,  I  knew  that  first  night  on  the 
train  that  you  were  a  gentleman." 

"Some  gentlemen  are  rotters,"  said  Ted  Holiday, 
with  a  wisdom  beyond  his  twenty  years. 

"But  you  are  not." 

"No,  I'm  not;  but  some  other  chap  might  be. 
That  is  why  I  wish  you  would  promise  not  to  go 
in  for  this  sort  of  thing." 

"With  anybody  but  you,"  she  stipulated. 

"Not  with  anybody  at  all,"  corrected  Ted  soberly, 
remembering  his  own  recent  restrained  impulse  to 
put  his  arm  around  her. 

"Well,  I  don't  want  to — at  least  not  with  anybody 
but  you.  I  never  did  it  before  with  anybody. 
Honest,  Ted,  I  never  did." 


54  WILD  WINGS 


"That's    good.     I   felt   sure   that   you   hadn't." 
"Why?" 

He  grinned  sheepishly  and  stooped  to  break  off 
a  dry  twig  from  a  nearby  bush. 

"By  the  way  you  didn't  let  me  kiss  you,"  he  ad- 
mitted. "A  fellow  likes  that  in  a  girl.  Did  you 
know  it?"  He  tossed  away  the  twig  and  looked 
back  at  the  girl  as  he  asked  the  question. 

"I  thought  they  liked — the  other  thing." 

"They  do  and  they  don't,"  said  Ted,  his  paradox 
again  betraying  a  scarcely  to  be  expected  wisdom. 
"But  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  What  I 
started  out  to  say  was  that  I'm  glad  you  don't  make 
a  practice  of  this  pick-up  business.  It — it's  no 
good,"  he  summed  up. 

"I  know."  Madeline  nodded  understanding  of 
the  import  of  his  warning.  She  was  far  too  hand- 
some and  too  prematurely  developed  physically  to 
be  devoid  of  experience  of  the  ways  of  the  opposite 
sex.  Like  Ophelia  she  knew  there  were  tricks  in 
the  world  and  she  liked  frank  Ted  Holiday  the  bet- 
ter for  reminding  her  of  them.  "I  won't  do  it," 
she  promised.  "That  is,  unless  you  don't  ever  come 
back  yourself.  I  don't  know  what  I'll  do  then- 
something  awful,  maybe." 

"I'll  come  fast  enough.  I'll  come  to-morrow."  he 
added  obeying  a  sudden  impulse,  Ted  fashion. 

"Will  you?"  The  girl's  face  flushed  with  delight. 
"When?" 

"To-morrow  afternoon.  I  can't  dodge  the  ivy 
stuff  in  the  morning.  Will  four  o'clock  do  all 
right?" 

"Yes.     Come  here  to  this  same  place." 

"I  say,  Madeline,  can't  I  come  to  the  house?  I 
hate  doing  it  like  this." 

"No,  you  can't.  If  you  want  to  see  me  you'll  have 
to  do  it  this  way.  It's  lots  nicer  here  than  in  the 
house,  anyway." 


WHEN  YOUTH  MEETS  YOUTH  55 

Ted  acquiesced,  since  he  had  no  choice,  and  rose, 
announcing  that  it  was  time  to  go  now. 

"We  don't  have  to  go  yet.  I  told  Grandpa  I  was 
going  to  spend  the  evening  with  my  friend,  Linda 
Bates.  He  won't  know.  We  can  stay  as  long  as 
we  like." 

"I  am  afraid  we  can't,"  said  Ted  decidedly. 
"Come  on,  my  lady."  He  held  out  both  hands  and 
Madeline  let  him  draw  her  to  her  feet,  though  she 
was  pouting  a  little  at  his  gainsaying  of  her  wishes. 

"You  may  kiss  me  now,"  she  said  suddenly,  lift- 
ing her  face  to  his. 

But  Ted  backed  away.  The  code  was  still  on. 
A  girl  of  his  own  kind  he  would  have  kissed  in  a 
moment  at  such  provocation,  or  none.  But  he  had 
an  odd  feeling  of  needing  to  protect  this  girl  from 
herself  as  well  as  from  himself. 

"You  had  more  sense  than  I  did  last  night.  Let's 
follow  your  lead  instead  of  mine,"  he  said.  "It's 
better." 

"But  Ted,  you  will  come  to-morrow?"  she 
pleaded.  "You  won't  forget  or  go  back  on  your 
promise?" 

"Of  course,  I'll  come,"  promised  Ted  again 
readily. 

Five  minutes  later  they  parted,  he  to  take  his 
car,  and  she  to  stroll  in  the  opposite  direction  to- 
ward her  friend  Linda's  house. 

"He  is  a  dear,"  she  thought.  "I'm  glad  he 
wouldn't  kiss  me,  so  there,"  she  said  aloud  to  a 
dusty  daisy  that  peered  up  at  her  rather  mock- 
ingly from  the  gutter. 

An  automobile  horn  honked  behind  her.  She 
stepped  aside,  but  the  car  stopped. 

"Well,  here  is  luck.  Where  are  you  going,  my 
pretty  maid?"  called  a  gay,  bold  voice. 

She  turned.  The  speaker  was  one  Willis  Hub- 
bard,  an  automobile  agent  by  profession,  lady's  man 


56  WILD  WINGS 


and  general  Lothario  by  avocation.  His  handsome 
dark  face  stood  out  clearly  in  the  dusk.  She  could 
see  the  avid  shine  in  his  eyes.  She  hated  him  all 
of  a  sudden,  though  hitherto  she  had  secretly  rather 
admired  him,  though  she  had  always  steadily  re- 
fused his  invitations. 

For  Madeline  was  wary.  She  knew  how  other 
girls  had  gone  out  with  Willis  in  his  smart  car  and 
come  back  to  give  rather  sketchy  accounts  of  the 
evening's  pleasure  jaunt.  Her  friend  Linda  had 
tried  it  once  and  remarked  later  that  Willis  was 
some  speed  and  that  Madeline  had  the  right  hunch 
to  keep  away  from  him. 

But  it  happened  that  Madeline  Taylor  was  the- 
particular  peach  that  Willis  Hubbard  hankered 
after.  He  didn't  like  them  too  easy,  ready  to  drop 
from  the  bough  at  the  first  touch.  All  the  same, 
he  meant  to  have  his  way  in  the  end  with  Madeline. 
He  had  an  excellent  opinion  of  his  powers  as  a  con- 
quering male.  He  had,  alas,  plenty  of  data  to 
warrant  it  in  his  relations  with  the  fair  and  some- 
times weak  sex. 

"What's  your  hurry,  dearie?"  he  asked  now. 
"Come  on  for  a  spin.  It's  the  pink  of  the  evening." 

But  she  thanked  him  stiffly  and  refused,  remem- 
bering Ted  Holiday's  honest  blue  eyes. 

"What  are  you  so  almighty  prunes  and  prisms 
for,  all  of  a  sudden?  It's  the  wrong  game  to  play 
with  a  man,  I  can  tell  you,  if  you  want  to  have  a 
good  time  in  the  world.  I  say,  Maidie,  be  a  good 
girl  and  come  out  with  me  to-morrow  night.  We'll 
have  dinner  somewhere  and  dance  arid  make  a  night 
of  it.  Say  yes,  you  beauty.  A  girl  like  you 
oughtn't  to  stay  cooped  up  at  home  forever.  It's 
against  nature." 

But  again  Madeline  refused  and  moved  away 
with  dignity. 

"Your  grandfather  will  never  know.     You  can 


WHEN  YOUTH  MEETS  YOUTH  57 

plan  to  stay  with  Linda  afterward.  I'll  meet  you 
by  the  sycamore  tree  just  beyond  the  Bates'  place  at 
eight  sharp — give  you  the  best  time  you  ever  had 
in  your  life.  Believe  me,  I'm  some  little  spender 
when  I  get  to  going." 

"No,  thank  you,  Mr.  Hubbard.  I  tell  you  I  can't 
go." 

He  stared  at  the  finality  of  her  manner.  He 
had  no  means  of  knowing  that  he  was  being  meas- 
ured up,  to  his  infinite  disadvantage,  with  a  blue 
eyed  fad  who  had  stirred  something  in  the  girl  be- 
fore him  that  he  himself  could  never  have  roused 
in  a  thousand  years.  But  he  did  know  he  was 
being  snubbed  and  the  knowledge  disturbed  his  fond 
conceit  of  self. 

"Highty  tighty  with  your  'Mr.  Hubbards' !  You 
will  sing  another  tune  by  to-morrow  night.  I'll 
wait  at  the  sycamore  and  you'll  be  there.  See  if 
you  won't.  You're  no  fool,  Maidie.  You  want  a 
good  time  and  you  know  I'm  the  boy  to  give  it 
to  you.  So  long!  See  you  to-morrow  night."  He 
started  his  motor,  kissed  his  hand  impudently  to 
her  and  was  off  down  the  road,  leaving  Madeline  to 
follow  slowly,  in  his  dust. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A   SHADOW   ON   THE  PATH 

ACROSS  the  campus  the  ivy  procession  wound  its 
lovely  length,  flanked  by  rainbow  clad  Junior  ush- 
ers immensely  conscious  of  themselves  and  their 
importance  as  they  bore  the  looped  laurel  chains 
between  which  walked  the  even  more  important 
Seniors,  all  in  white  and  each  bearing  an  American 
Beauty  rose  before  her  proudly,  like  a  wand  of 
youth. 

At  the  head  of  the  procession,  as  president  of  the 
class,  walked  Antoinette  Holiday,  a  little  lady  of 
quality,  as  none  who  saw  her  could  have  helped 
recognizing.  Her  uncle,  watching  the  procession 
from  the  steps  of  a  campus  house,  smiled  and  sighed 
as  he  beheld  her.  She  was  so  young,  so  blithe- 
hearted,  so  untouched  by  the  sad  and  sordid  things 
of  life.  If  only  he  could  keep  her  so  for  a  little, 
preserve  the  shining  splendor  of  her  shield  of  inno- 
cent young  joy.  But,  even  as  he  thought,  he  knew 
the  folly  of  his  wish.  Tony  would  be  the  last  to 
desire  to  have  life  tempered  or  kept  from  her.  She 
would  want  to  drain  the  whole  cup,  bitter,  sweet 
and  all. 

Farther  back  in  the  procession  was  Carlotta, 
looking  as  heavenly  fair  and  ethereal  as  if  she  had 
that  morning  been  wafted  down  from  the  skies. 
Out  of  the  crowd  Phil  Lambert's  eyes  met  hers  and 
smiled.  Very  sensibly  and  modernly  these  two  had 
decided  to  remain  the  best  of  friends  since  fate 

58 


A  SHADOW  ON  THE  PATH  59 

prevented  their  being  lovers.  But  Phil's  eyes  were 
rather  more  than  friendly,  resting  on  Carlotta,  and, 
underneath  the  diaphanous,  exquisite  white  cloud  of 
a  gown  that  she  wore,  Carlotta's  heart  beat  a  little 
faster  for  what  she  saw  in  his  face.  The  hand  that 
held  her  rose  trembled  ever  so  slightly  as  she  smiled 
bravely  back  at  him.  She  could  not  forget  those 
"very  different"  kisses  of  his,  nor,  with  all  the  will 
in  the  world,  could  she  go  back  to  where  she  was 
before,  she  went  up  the  mountain  and  came  down 
again  in  the  purple  dusk.  She  knew  she  had  to 
get  used  to  a  strange,  new  world,  a  world  without 
Philip  Lambert,  a  rather  empty  world,  it  seemed. 
She  wondered  if  this  new  world  would  give  her  any- 
thing so  wonderful  and  sweet  as  this  thing  that 
she  had  by  her*  own  act  surrendered.  Almost  she 
thought  not. 

Ted,  standing  beside  his  uncle,  watching  the  pro- 
cession, suddenly  heard  a  familiar  whistle,  a  signal 
dating  back  to  Holiday  Hill  days,  as  unmistakable 
as  the  Star  Spangled  Banner  itself,  though  who 
should  be  using  it  here  and  why  was  a  mystery.  In 
a  moment  his  roving  gaze  discovered  the  solution. 
Standing  upon  a  slight  elevation  on  the  campus 
opposite  he  perceived  Dick  Carson.  The  latter 
beckoned  peremptorily.  Ted  wriggled  out  of  the 
group,  descended  with  one  leap  over  the  rail  to  the 
lawn,  and  made  his  way  to  where  the  other  youth 
waited. 

"What  in  Sam  Hill's  chewing  you?"  he  demanded 
upon  arrival.  "You've  made  me  quit  the  only  spot 
I've  struck  to-day  where  I  had  room  to  stand  on  my 
own  feet  and  see  anything  at  the  same  time." 

"I  say,  Ted,  what  train  was  Larry  coming  on?" 
counterquestioned  Dick. 

"Chicago  Overland.     Why?" 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"Of  course  I  am  sure.     He  wired  Tony.     What 


60  WILD  WINGS 


in  thunder  are  you  driving  at?     Get  it  out  for 
Pete's  sake?" 

"The  Chicago  Overland  smashed  into  a  freight 
somewhere  near  Pittsburgh  this  morning.  There 
were  hundreds  of  people  killed.  Oh,  Lord,  Ted! 
I  didn't  mean  to  break  it  to  you  like  that."  Dick 
was  aghast  at  his  own  clumsiness  as  Ted  leaned 
against  the  brick  wall  of  the  college  building,  his 
face  white  as  chalk.  "I  wasn't  thinking — guess  I 
wasn't  thinking  about  much  of  anything  except 
Tony,"  he  added. 

Ted  groaned. 

"Don't  wronder,"  he  muttered.  "Let's  not  let  her 
get  wind  of  it  till  we  have  to.  Are  you  sure  there — 
there  isn't  any  mistake?"  Ted  put  up  his  hand  to 
brush  back  a  refractory  lock  of  hair  and  found  his 
forehead  wet  with  cold  perspiration.  "There's  got 
to  be  a  mistake.  Larry — I  won't  believe  it,  so 
there!" 

"You  don't  have  to  believe  it  till  you  know. 
Even  if  he  was  on  the  train  it  doesn't  mean  he  is 
hurt."  Dick  would  not  name  the  harsher  possi- 
bility to  Larry  Holiday's  brother. 

"Of  course,  it  doesn't,"  snapped  Ted.  "I  say, 
Dick,  is  it  in  the  papers  yet?" 

"No,  it  will  be  in  an  hour  though,  as  soon  as 
the  evening  editions  get  out." 

"Good !  Dick,  it's  up  to  you  to  keep  Tony  from 
knowing.  She  is  going  to  sing  in  the  concert  at 
five.  That  will  keep  her  occupied  until  six.  But 
from  now  till  then  nix  on  the  news.  Take 
her  out  on  the  fool  pond,  walk  her  up  Sunset  Hill, 
quarrel  with  her,  make  love  to  her,  anything,  so  she 
wron't  guess.  I  don't  dare  go  near  her.  I'd  give  it 
away  in  a  minute,  I'm  such  an  idiot.  Besides  I 
can't  think  of  anything  but  Larry.  Gee!"  The 
boy  swept  his  hand  across  his  eyes.  "Last  time  I 
saw  him  I  consigned  him  to  the  devil  because  he 


A  SHADOW  ON  THE  PATH  61 

told  me  some  perfectly  true  things  about  myself  and 
tried  to  give  me  some  perfectly  sound  advice.  And 
now — I'm  damned  if  I  believe  it.  Larry  is  all 
right.  He's  got  to  be/'  fiercely. 

"Of  course,  he  is,"  soothed  Dick.  "And  I'll  try 
to  do  as  you  say  about  Tony.  I'm  not  much  of  an 
actor,  but  I  guess  I  can  carry  it  through  for — for 
her  sake." 

The  little  break  in  the  speaker's  voice  made  Ted 
turn  quickly  and  stare  at  the  other  youth. 

"Dick,  old  chap,  is  it  like  that  with  you?  I 
didn't  know." 

Ted's  hand  went  out  and  held  the  other's  in  a  cor- 
dial grip. 

"Nobody  knows.  I — I  didn't  mean  to  show  it 
then.  It's  no  good.  I  know  that  naturally." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  about  that.  I  know  one  member 
of  the  family  that  would  be  mighty  proud  to  have 
you  for  a  brother." 

The  obvious  ring  of  sincerity  touched  Dick.  It 
was  a  good  deal  coming  from  a  Holiday. 

"Thank  you,  Ted.  That  means  a  lot,  I  can  tell 
you.  I'll  never  forget  your  saying  it  like  that. 
You  won't  give  me  away,  I  know." 

"Sure  not,  old  man.  Tony  is  way  up  in  the 
clouds  just  now,  anyway.  We  are  all  mostly  ants 
in  our  minor  ant  hills  so  far  as  she  is  concerned. 
Gee!  I  hope  it  isn't  this  thing  about  Larry  that  is 
going  to  pull  her  down  to  earth.  If  anything  had 
to  happen  to  any  of  us  why  couldn't  it  have  been  me 
instead  of  Larry.  He  is  worth  ten  of  me." 

"We  don't  know  that  anything  has  happened  to 
Larry  yet,"  Dick  reminded.  "I  say,  Ted,  they  must 
have  got  the  ivy  planted.  Everybody's  coming 
back.  Tony  is  lunching  with  me  at  Boyden's  right 
away,  and  I'll  see  that  she  has  her  hands  full  until 
it  is  time  for  the  concert.  You  warn  Miss  Car- 
lotta,  so  she'll  be  on  guard  after  I  surrender 


62  WILD  WINGS 


her.     I'm  afraid  you  will  have  to  tell  your  uncle." 
"I  will.     Trot  on,  old  man,  and  waylay  Tony. 
I'll  make  a  mess  of  things  sure  as  preaching  if  I 
run  into  her  now." 

Tony  thought  she  had  never  known  Dick  to  be  so 
entertaining  or  talkative  as  he  was  during  that 
luncheon  hour.  He  regaled  her  with  all  kinds  of 
newspaper  yarns  and  related  some  of  his  own  once 
semi-tragic  but  now  humorous  misadventures  of  his 
early  cub  days.  He  talked,  too,  on  current  events 
and  world  history,  talked  well,  with  the  quiet  poise 
and  assurance  of  the  reader  and  thinker,  the  man 
who  has  kept  his  eyes  and  ears  open  to  life. 

It  was  a  revelation  to  Tony.  For  once  their  res- 
pective roles  were  reversed,  he  the  talker,  she  the 
listener. 

"Goodness  me,  Dick!"  she  exclaimed  during  a 
pause  in  what  had  become  almost  a  monologue. 
"Why  haven't  you  ever  talked  like  this  before?  I 
always  thought  I  had  to  do  it  all  and  here  you  talk 
better  than  I  ever  thought  of  doing  because  you 
have  something  to  say  and  mine  is  just  chatter  and 
nonsense." 

He  smiled  at  that. 

"I  love  your  chatter.     But  you  are  tired  to-day 
and  it  is  my  turn.     Do  you  know  what  we  are  going 
to  do  after  luncheon  ?" 
"No,  what?" 

"We  are  going  to  take  a  canoe  out  on  your  Para- 
dise and  get  into  a  shady  spot  somewhere  along  the 
bank  and  you  will  lean  back  against  a  whole  lot  of 
becoming  cushions  and  put  up  that  red  parasol  of 
yours  so  nobody  but  me  can  see  your  face  and 
then—" 

"Dicky!  Dicky!  Whatever  is  in  you  to-day? 
Paradise,  pillows  and  parasols  are  familiar  symp- 
toms. You  will  be  making  love  to  me  next." 

"I  might,  at  that,"  murmured  Dick.     "But  you 


A  SHADOW  ON  THE  PATH  63 

did  not  hear  the  rest  of  my  proposition.  And  then 
— I  shall  read  you  a  story — a  story  that  I  wrote 
myself." 

"Dick!"  Tony  nearly  upset  her  glass  of  iced  tea 
in  her  amazement  at  this  unexpected  announce- 
ment. "You  don't  mean  you  have  really  and  truly 
written  a  story !" 

"Honest  to  goodness — such  as  it  is.  Please  to 
remember  it  is  my  maiden  effort  and  make  a  mar- 
gin of  allowance.  But  I  want  your  criticism,  too — 
all  the  benefit  of  your  superior  academic  training." 

"Superior  academic  bosh !"  scoffed  Tony.  "I'll 
bet  it  is  a  corking  story,"  she  added  unacadem- 
ically.  "Come  on.  Let's  go,  quick.  I  can't  wait 
to  hear  it." 

Nothing  loath  to  get  away  speedily  before  the 
newsboys  began  to  cry  the  accident  through  the 
streets,  Dick  escorted  his  pretty  companion  back 
to  the  campus  and  on  to  Paradise,  at  which  point 
they  took  a  canoe  and,  finally  selecting  a  shady 
point  under  an  over-reaching  sycamore  tree,  drifted 
in  to  shore  where  Tony  leaned  against  the  cushions, 
tilted  her  parasol  as  specified  at  the  angle  which 
forbade  any  but  Dick  to  see  her  charming,  expres- 
sive young  face  and  commanded  him  to  "shoot." 

Dick  shot.  Tony  listened  intently,  watching  his 
face  as  he  read,  feeling  as  if  this  were  a  new  Dick — 
a  Dick  she  did  not  know  at  all,  albeit  a  most  inter- 
esting person. 

"Why  Dick  Carson !"  she  exclaimed  when  he  fin- 
ished. "It  is  great — a  real  story  with  real  laughter 
and  tears  in  it.  I  love  it,  It  is  so — so  human." 

The  author  flushed  and  fidgeted  and  protested 
that  it  wasn't  much — just  a  sketch  clone  from  life 
with  a  very  little  dressing  up  and  polishing  down. 

"I  have  a  lot  more  of  them  in  my  head,  though," 
he  added.  "And  I'm  going  to  grind  them  out  as 
soon  as  I  get  time.  I  wish  I  had  a  bigger  vocab- 


64  WILD  WINGS 


ulary  and  knew  more  about  the  technical  end  of 
the  writing  game.  I  am  going  to  learn,  though- 
going  to  take  some  night  work  at  the  University 
next  fall.  Maybe  I'll  catch  up  a  little  yet  if  I 
keep  pegging  away." 

"Catch  up!  Dick,  you  make  me  so  ashamed. 
Here  Larry  and  Ted  and  I  have  had  everything 
done  for  us  all  our  lives  and  we've  slipped  along 
with  the  current,  following  the  line  of  least  resist- 
ance. And  you  have  had  everything  to  contend 
with  and  you  are  way  ahead  of  the  rest  of  us  al- 
ready. But  why  didn't  you  tell  me  before  about 
the  story?  I  think  you  might  have,  Dicky.  You 
know  I  would  be  interested,"  reproachfully. 

"I — I  wasn't  talking  much  about  it  to  anybody 
till  I  knew  it  was  any  good.  But  I — just  took  a 
notion  to  read  it  to  you  to-day.  That's  all." 

It  wasn't  all,  but  he  wanted  Tony  to  think  it  was. 
Not  for  anything  would  he  have  betrayed  how  read- 
ing the  story  was  a  desperate  expedient  to  keep  her 
diverted  and  safe  from  news  of  the  disaster  on  the 
Overland. 

He  escorted  Tony  back  to  the  campus  house  at 
the  latest  possible  moment  and  Carlotta,  in  the 
secret,  pretended  to  upbraid  her  roommate  for  her 
tardiness  and  flew  about  helping  her  to  get  dressed, 
talking  continuously  the  while  and  keeping  a  sharp 
eye  on  the  door  lest  some  intruder  burst  in  and  say 
the  very  thing  Tony  Holiday  must  not  be  permitted 
to  hear.  It  would  be  so  ridiculously  easy  for  some- 
body to  ask,  "Oh,  did  you  hear  about  the  awful 
wreck  on  the  Overland?"  and  then  the  fat  would  be 
in  the  fire. 

But,  thanks  to  Carlotta,  nobody  had  a  chance  to 
say  it  and  later  Tony  Holiday,  standing  in  the  twi- 
light in  front  of  College  Hall's  steps,  sang  her  solo, 
Gounod's  beautiful  Ave  Maria,  smiled  happily 
down  into  the  faces  of  the  dear  folks  from  her  be- 


A  SHADOW  ON  THE  PATH  65 

loved  Hill  and  only  regretted  that  Larry  was  not 
there  with  the  rest — Larry  who,  for  all  the  others 
knew,  might  never  come  again. 

After  dinner  Ted  rushed  off  again  to  the  tele- 
graph office  which  he  had  been  haunting  all  the  af- 
ternoon to  see  if  any  word  had  come  from  his 
brother,  and  Doctor  Holiday  went  on  up  to  the  cam- 
pus to  escort  his  niece  to  the  informal  hop.  He  had 
decided  to  go  on  just  as  if  nothing  was  wrong.  If 
Larry  was  safe  then  there  was  no  need  of  clouding 
Tony's  joy,  and  if  he  wasn't — well,  there  would  be 
time  enough  to  grieve  when  they  knew.  By  virtue 
of  his  being  a  grave  and  reverend  uncle  he  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  sacred  precincts  of  his  niece's  room 
and  had  hardly  gotten  seated  when  the  door  flew 
open  and  Ted  flew  in  waving  two  yellow  telegraph 
blanks  triumphantly,  one  in  each  hand,  and  an- 
nouncing that  everything  was  all  right — Larry  was 
all  right,  had  wired  from  Pittsburgh. 

Before  Tony  had  a  chance  to  demand  what  it  was 
all  about  the  door  opened  again  and  a  righteously 
indignant  house  mother  appeared  on  the  threshold, 
demanding  by  what  right  an  unauthorized  male  had 
gone  up  her  stairway  and  entered  a  girl's  room, 
without  permission  or  escort. 

"I  apologize,"  beamed  Ted  with  his  most  engag- 
ing smile.  "Come  on  outside,  Mrs.  Maynerd  and 
I'll  tell  you  all  about  it."  And  tucking  his  arm  in 
hers  the  irrepressible  youth  conveyed  the  angry  per- 
sonage out  into  the  hall,  leaving  his  uncle  to  explain 
the  situation  to  Tony. 

In  a  moment  he  was  back  triumphant. 

"She  says  I  may  stay  since  I'm  here,  and 
Uncle  Phil  is  here  to  play  dragon,"  he  announced. 
"She  thought  at  first  Carlotta  would  have  to  be  ex- 
punged to  make  it  legal,  but  I  overruled  her,  told 
her  you  and  I  had  played  tiddle-de-winks  with  each 
other  in  our  cradles,"  he  added  with  an  impish  grin 


66  WILD  WINGS 


at  his  sister's  roommate.  "Of  course  I  never  laid 
eyes  on  you  till  two  years  ago,  but  that  doesn't  mat- 
ter. I  have  a  true  tiddle-de-winks  feeling  for  you, 
anyway,  and  that  is  what  counts,  isn't  it,  sweet- 
ness?" 

Carlotta  laughed  and  averred  that  she  was  going 
to  expunge  herself  anyway  as  Phil  was  waiting  for 
her  downstairs.  She  picked  up  a  turquoise  satin 
mandarin  cloak  from  the  chair  and  Ted  sprang  to 
put  it  around  her  bare  shoulders,  stooping  to  kiss 
the  tip  of  her  ear  as  he  finished. 

"Lucky  Phil !"  he  murmured. 

Carlotta  shook  her  head  at  him  and  went  over  to 
Tony,  over  whom  she  bent  for  an  instant  with  un- 
usual feeling  in  her  lovely  eyes. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  she  whispered.  "I  wish  I  could 
tell  you-  how  I  feel.  I'm  so  glad — so  glad."  And 
then  she  was  gone  before  Tony  could  answer. 

"Oh  me !"  she  sighed.  "She  has  been  so  wonder- 
ful. You  all  have.  Ted — Uncle  Phil !  Come  over 
here.  I  want  to  hold  you  tight." 

And,  with  her  brother  on  one  side  df  her  and  her 
uncle  on  the  other,  Tony  gave  a  hand  to  each  and  for 
a  moment  no  one  spoke.  Then  Ted  produced  his 
telegrams  one  of  which  was  addressed  to  Tony  and 
one  to  her  uncle.  Both  announced  the  young  doc- 
tor's safety.  "Staying  over  in  Pittsburgh.  Letter 
follows,"  was  in  the  doctor's  message.  "Sorry 
can't  make  commencement.  Love  and  congratula- 
tions," was  in  Tony's. 

"There,  didn't  I  tell  you  he  was  all  right?"  de- 
manded Ted,  as  if  his  brother's  safety  were  due  to 
his  own  remarkably  good  management  of  the  affair. 
"Gee!  Tony!  If  you  knew  how  I  felt  when  Dick 
told  me  this  morning.  I  pretty  nearly  disgraced 
myself  by  toppling  over,  just  like  a  girl,  on  the  cam- 
pus. Lord !  It  was  fierce." 


A  SHADOW  ON  THE  PATH  67 

"I  know."  Tony  squeezed  his  hand  sympa- 
thetically. "And  Dick — why  Dick  must  have  kept 
me  out  in  Paradise  on  purpose." 

"Sure  he  did.  Dick's  a  Jim.  dandy  and  don't  you 
forget  it." 

"I  shan't,"  said  Tony,  her  eyes  a  little  misty,  re- 
membering how  Dick  had  fought  all  day  to  keep  her 
care-free  happiness  intact.  "I  don't  know  whether 
to  be  angry  at  you  all  for  keeping  it  from  me  or  to 
fall  on  .your  necks  and  weep  because  you  were  all  so 
dear  not  to  tell  me.  And  oh!  If  anything  had 
happened  to  Larry !  I  don't  see  how  I  could  have 
stood  it.  It  makes  us  all  seem  awfully  near, 
doesn't  it?" 

"You  bet!"  agreed  Ted  with  more  fervor  than 
elegance.  "If  the  old  chap  had  been  done  for  I'd 
have  felt  like  making  for  the  river,  myself.  Funny, 
now  the  scare  is  over  and  he  is  all  safe,  I  shall  prob- 
ably cuss  him  out  as  hard  as  ever  next  time  he  tries 
to  preach  at  me." 

"You  had  better  listen  to  him  instead.  Larry  is 
apt  to  be  right  and  you  are  apt  to  be  wrong,  and  you 
know  it." 

"Maybe  it  is  because  I  do  know  it  and  because  he 
is  so  devilish  right  that  I  damn  him,"  observed  the 
youngest  Holiday  sagely,  his  eyes  meeting  his 
uncle's  over  his  sister's  head. 

It  wasn't  until  he  had  danced  and  flirted  and 
made  merry  for  three  consecutive  hours  at  the  hop, 
and  proposed  in  the  exuberance  of  his  mood  to  at 
least  three  different  charmers  whose  names  he  had 
forgotten  by  the  next  day,  that  Ted  Holiday  remem- 
bered Madeline  and  his  promise  to*  keep  tryst  with 
her  that  afternoon.  Other  things  of  more  moment 
had  swept  her  clean  from  his  mind. 

"Thunder!"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "Wonder 
what  she  is  thinking  when  I  swore  by  all  that  was 


68  WILD  WINGS 


holy  to  come.  Oh  well!  I  should  worry.  I 
couldn't  help  it.  I'll  write  and  explain  how  it  hap- 
pened." 

So  said,  so  done.  He  scribbled  off  a  hasty  note 
of  explanation  and  apology  which  he  signed  "Yours 
devotedly,  Ted  Holiday"  and  went  out  to  the  corner 
mail  box  to  dispatch  the  same  so  it  would  go  out  in 
the  early  morning  collection,  and  prepared  to  dis- 
miss the  matter  from  his  mind  again. 

Coming  back  into  his  room  he  found  his  uncle 
standing  on  the  threshold. 

"Had  to  get  a  letter  off,"  murmured  the  young 
man  as  his  uncle  looked  inquiring.  He  turned  to 
light  a  cigarette  with  an  air  of  determined  casual- 
ness.  He  didn't  care  to  have  Uncle  Phil  know  any 
more  about  the  Madeline  affair. 

"It  must  have  been  important." 

"Was,"  curtly.  "Did  you  think  I  was  joy  riding 
again?" 

"No,  I  heard  you  stirring  and  thought  you  might 
be  sick.  I  haven't  been  able  to  get  to  sleep  myself." 

Seeing  how  utterly  worn  out  his  uncle  looked, 
Ted's  resentment  took  quick,  shamed  flight.  Poor 
Uncle  Phil !  He  never  spared  himself,  always  bore 
the  brunt  of  everything  for  them  all.  And  here  he 
himself  had  just  snapped  like  a  cur  because  he  sus- 
pected his  guardian  of  desiring  to  interfere  with  his 
high  and  mighty  private  business. 

"Too  bad,"  he'  said.  "Wish  you'd  smoke,  Uncle 
Phil.  It's  great  to  cool  off  your  nerves.  Honest 
it  is !  Have  one?"  He  held  out  his  case. 

Doctor  Holiday  smiled  at  that,  though  he  declined 
the  proffered  weed.  He  understood  very  well  that 
the  boy  was  making  tacit  amends  for  his  ungra- 
ciousness of  a  moment  before. 

"No,  I'll  get  to  sleep  presently.  It  has  been 
rather  a  wearing  day." 

"Should  say  it  had  been.     I  hope  Aunt  Margery 


A  SHADOW  ON  THE  PATH  69 

doesn't  know  about  the  wreck.  She'll  worry,  if  she 
knew  Larry  was  coming  east." 

"I  wired  her  this  evening.  I  didn't  want  to  take 
any  chance  of  her  thinking  he  was  in  the  smash." 

Ted  laid  down  his  cigarette. 

"You  never  forget  anybody  do  you,  Uncle  Phil?" 
he  said  rather  soberly  for  him. 

"I  never  forget  Margery.  She  is  a  very  part  of 
myself,  lad." 

And  when  he  was  alone  Ted  pondered  over  that 
last  speech  of  his  uncle's.  He  wondered  if  there 
would  ever  be  a  Margery  for  him,  and,  if  so,  what 
she  would  think  of  the  Madelines  if  she  knew  of 
them. 


CHAPTER  VII 

DEVELOPMENTS   BY, MAIL 

AFTER  the  family  had  reassembled  on  the  Hill  the 
promised  letter  from  Larry  arrived.  He  was  stay- 
ing on  so  long  as  his  services  were  needed.  The 
enormous  number  of  victims  of  the  wreck  had 
strained  to  the  uttermost  the  city's  supply  of  doc- 
tors and  nurses,  and  there  was  more  than  enough 
work  for  all.  The  writer  spared  them  the  details  of 
the  wreck  so  far  as  possible;  indeed,  evidently  was 
not  anxious  to  relive  the  horrors  on  his  own  account. 
He  mentioned  a  few  of  the  many  sad  cases  only. 
One  of  these  was  the  instant  death  of  a  famous  sur- 
geon whose  loss  to  the  world  seemed  tragic  and 
pitifully  wasteful  to  the  young  doctor.  Another 
was  the  crushing  to  death  of  a  young  mother  who, 
with  her  two  children,  had  been  happily  on  their 
way  to  meet  the  husband  who  had  been  in  South 
America  for  a  year.  Larry  had  made  friends  with 
her  on  the  train  and  played  with  the  babies  who  re- 
minded him  of  his  small  cousins-,  Eric  and  Hester, 
Doctor  Philip's  children. 

A  third  case  he  went  into  more  fully,  that  of  a 
young  woman — just  a  mere  girl  in  appearance 
though  she  wore  a  wedding  ring — who  had  received 
a  terrible  blow  on  the  base  of  her  brain  which  had 
driven  out  memory  entirely.  She  did  not  know 
who  she  was,  where  she  was  going,  or  whence  she 
had  come.  Her  physical  injuries,  otherwise,  were 

not  serious,  a  broken  arm  and  some  bad  bruises, 

70 


DEVELOPMENTS  BY  MAIL  71 

nothing  but  what  she  would  easily  recover  from  in 
a  short  time;  but,  for  all  her  effort,  the  past 
remained  as  something  on  the  other  side  of  a 
strange,  blank  wall. 

"She  tries  pitifully  hard  to  remember,  and  is 
so  sweet  and  brave  we  are  all  devoted  to  her.  I  al- 
ways stop  and  talk  to  her  when  I  go  by  her.  She 
seems  to  cling  to  me,  rather,  as  if  I  could  help  her 
get  things  back.  Lord  knows  I  wish  I  could.  She 
is  too  dainty  and  fragile  a  morsel  of  humanity  to  be 
left  to  fight  such  a  thing  alone.  She  is  a  regular 
little  Dresden  shepherdess,  with  the  tiniest  feet  and 
hands  and  the  yellowest  hair  and  bluest  eyes  I  ever 
saw.  Her  husband  must  be  about  crazy,  poor  chap, 
not  hearing  from  her.  I  suppose  he  will  be  turning 
up  soon  to  claim  her.  I  hope  so.  I  don't  know 
what  will  become  of  her  if  he  does  not. 

"It  is  late  and  I  must  turn  in.  I  don't  know 
when  I  shall  get  home.  I  don't  flatter  myself  Dun- 
bury  will  miss  me  much  when  it  has  you.  Give 
everybody  my  love  and  tell  Tony  I  am  awfully 
sorry  I  couldn't  get  to  commencement.  I  guess 
maybe  she  is  glad  enough  to  have  me  alive  not  to 
mind  much.  I'm  some  glad  to  be  alive  myself." 

The  letter  ended  with  affectionate  greetings  to 
the  older  doctor  from  his  nephew  and  junior  assis- 
tant. With  it  came  another  epistle  from  the  same 
city  from  an  old  doctor  friend  who  had  watched 
Philip  Holiday,  himself,  grow  up,  and  had  immedi- 
ately set  his  eye  on  the  younger  Holiday,  when  he 
had  discovered  the  relationship. 

"You  have  a  lad  to  be  proud  of  in  that  Larry  of 
yours,"  he  wrote.  "He  is  on  the  job  early  and  late, 
no  smart  Alecness,  no  shirking,  no  fool  questions, 
just  there  on  the  spot  when  you  want  him  with 
cool  head,  steady  nerves  and  a  hand  as  gentle  as  a 
woman's.  I  like  his  quality,  Phil.  Quality  shows 
up  at  a  time  like  this.  He  is  true  Holiday, 


72  WILD  WINGS 


through  and  through,  and  you  can  tell  him  I  said 
so  when  you  see  him." 

The  doctor  smiled,  well  pleased  at  this  tribute  to 
Ned's  son  and  this  letter,  like  Larry's,  he  handed  to 
his  wife  Margery  to  read. 

The  thirties  had  touched  "Miss  Margery"  lightly. 
She  was  still  slim  and  girlish-looking.  In  her 
simple  gown  of  that  forgetmenot  blue  shade  which 
her  husband  particularly  loved  she  seemed  scarcely 
older  than  she  had  on  that  day,  some  eight  years 
earlier,  when  he  had  found  her  giving  a  Fourth  of 
July  party  to  the  Hill  youngsters,  and  had  begun  to 
lose  his  heart  to  her  then  and  there.  It  was  not  by 
shedding  care  and  responsibility,  however,  that  she 
had  kept  her  youth.  It  was  by  no  means  the  easiest 
thing  in  the  world  to  be  a  busy  doctorls  wife,  the 
mother  of  two  lively  children  and  faithful  daughter 
to  an  invalid  and  rather  "difficult"  mother-in-law, 
as  well  as  to  care  for  a  big  house  and  an  elastic 
household,  which  in  vacation  time  included  Ned 
Holiday's  children  and  their  friends.  Needless  to 
say  she  did  not  do  any  painting  these  days.  But 
there  is  more  than  one  way  of  being  an  artist,  and 
of  the  art  of  simple,  lovely,  human  living  Margery 
Holiday  was  past  mistress. 

"Doesn't  sound  much  like  'Lazy  Larry'  these  days, 
does  it?"  she  commented,  giving  the  letters  back  to 
her  husband.  "I  know  you  are  proud  of  Doctor 
Fenton's  letter,  Phil.  You  ought  to  be.  It  is  more 
than  a  little  due  to  you  that  Larry  is  what  he  is." 

"We  are  advertised  by  our  loving  wives,"  he  mis- 
quoted teasingly.  "I  have  always  observed  that 
the  things  we  approve  of  in  the  younger  generation 
are  the  fruit  of  seeds  we  planted.  The  things  we 
disapprove  of  slipped  in  inadvertedly  like  weeds." 

The  same  mail  that  brought  Larry's  letter 
brought  one  also  to  Ted  from  Madeline  Taylor,  a 
letter  which  made  him  wriggle  a  little  internally, 


DEVELOPMENTS  BY  MAIL  73 

and  pull  his  forelock,  as  was  his  habit  when  things 
were  a  bit  perturbing. 

Madeline  had  gone  to  bed  that  Sunday  night 
after  her  meeting  with  Ted  in  the  woods,  full  of  the 
happiest  kind  of  anticipations  and  shy,  foolish,  im- 
possible dreams.  Her  mind  told  her  it  was  the 
rankest  of  nonsense  to  dream  about  Ted  Holiday, 
but  her  heart  would  do  it.  She  knew  the  affair 
with  Ted  had  begun  wrong,  but  she  couldn't  help 
hoping.it  would  come  out  beautifully  right.  She 
couldn't  help  making  believe  she  had  found  her 
prince,  a  bonny  laddie  who  liked  her  well  enough 
to  play  straight  with  her  and  to  come  again  to  see 
her. 

She  meant  to  try  so  hard,  so  very  hard,  to  make 
herself  into  the  kind  of  girl  he  was  used  to  and  liked. 
She  cut  out  the  picture  of  Tony  Holiday  that  Max 
Hempel  and  Dick  Carson  had  studied  that  day  on 
the  train.  She  studied  it  even  harder  and  hid  it 
away  among  her  very  special  treasures  where  she 
could  take  it  out  and  look  at  it  often  and  use  it  as 
a  model.  She  even  snatched  her  hitherto  precious 
earrings  from  their  pink  cotton  resting  place  and 
hurled  them  as  far  as  she  could  into  the  night.  She 
was  very  sure  Tony  Holiday  did  not  wear  earrings, 
and  she  was  even  surer  she  had  seen  Ted's  eyes 
resting  disapprovingly  on  hers.  The  earrings  had 
to  go.  They  had  gone. 

The  next  afternoon  she  had  waited  for  a  while 
patiently  by  the  brook.  The  distant  clock  struck 
the  half  hour,  the  three  quarters,  the  full  hour.  No 
Ted  Holiday.  By  this  time  her  patience  had  long 
since  evaporated  and  now  blazed  into  blind  rage. 
Ted  had  forgotten  his  promise,  if  indeed  he  had  ever 
meant  to  keep  it.  He  was  with  those  other  girls — 
his  kind.  Maybe  he  was  laughing  at  her,  telling 
them  how  "easy"  she  had  been,  how  gullible.  No, 
he  wouldn't!  He  would  be  ashamed  to  admit  he 


74  WILD  WINGS 


had  had  anything  to  do  with  her.  Men  did  not 
boast  of  their  conquest  of  one  kind  of  girl  to  an- 
other. She  had  read  enough  fiction  to  know  that. 

In  any  case  she  hated  Ted  Holiday  with  a  fine 
fury  of  resentment.  She  wanted  to  make  him  suf- 
fer, even  as  she  was  suffering,  though  she  sensed 
vaguely  that  men  couldn't  suffer  that  way.  It  was 
only  women  who  were  capable  of  such  fine-drawn 
torture.  Men  went  free. 

From  her  rage  against  her  recreant  cavalier  she 
went  on  to  rage  against  life  built  on  a  man-made 
plan  for  the  benefit  of  man.  Women  were  hurt,  no 
matter  what  they  did.  Being  good  wasn't  any  use. 
You  got  hurt  all  the  worse  if  you  were  good.  It 
was  silly  even  to  try.  It  was  better  to  shut  your 
eyes  and  have  a  good  time. 

Pursuing  this  reasoning  brought  Madeline  Tay- 
lor to  the  sycamore  tree  that  night  where  Willis 
Hubbard's  car  waited.  She  went  with  Willis,  not 
to  please  him,  not  to  please  herself,  but  to  spite  Ted 
Holiday.  She  had  hinted  to  Ted  she  would  do 
something  desperate  if  he  failed  her.  She  had  done 
something  desperate,  but  it  was  herself,  not  Ted, 
that  had  been  hurt.  She  discovered  that  too  late. 

The  next  morning  had  brought  Ted's  pleasant, 
penitent  note,  explaining  his  defection  and  expres- 
sing the  hope  that  they  might  meet  again  soon, 
signed  hers  "devotedly."  Poor  Madeline!  The 
cup  of  her  regret  was  very  bitter  to  the  taste  as  she 
read  that  letter  of  Ted  Holiday's. 

Something  of  her  misery  and  self-abasement 
crept  into  the  letter  to  Ted,  together  with  a  pas- 
sionate remorse  for  having  doubted  him  and  her 
even  more  vehement  regret  for  having  gone  out 
with  Willis  Hubbard.  The  whole  complex  story 
of  her  emotional  reactions  was  of  course  not  written 
down  for  Ted's  eyes;  but  he  read  quite  enough  to 
permit  him  to  guess  more  than  he  cared  to  know. 


DEVELOPMENTS  BY  MAIL  75 

Hubbard  was  evidently  something  of  a  rotter. 
Maybe  he  was  a  bit  of  a  rotter  himself.  If  he 
hadn't  taken  the  girl  out  joy  riding  himself  she 
wouldn't  have  gone  with  the  other  two  nights 
later.  That  was  plain  to  be  seen  with  half  an  eye 
and  Ted  Holiday  was  man  enough  to  look  at  the 
fact  straight  and  unblinking  for  a  moment. 

Well!  He  should  worry.  It  wasn't  his  fault  if 
Madeline  had  been  fool  enough  to  go  out  with  Hub- 
bard,  when  she  knew  what  kind  of  a  chap  he  was. 
He  wasn't  her  keeper.  He  didn't  see  why  she  had 
to  ask  him  to  forgive  her.  It  was  none  of  his  busi- 
ness. And  he  wished  she  hadn't  begged  so  ear- 
nestly and  humbly  that  he  would  see  her  again  soon. 
He  didn't  want  to  see  her.  Yet,  down  underneath, 
Ted  Holiday  had  an  uneasy  feeling  he  ought  to 
want  it,  ought  to  try  to  make  up  to  her  in  some  way 
for  something  which  was  somehow  his  fault,  even 
though  he  did  disclaim  the  responsibility. 

Two  days  later  came  another  letter  even  more  dis- 
turbing. It  seemed  Madeline  was  going  to  Holyoke 
again  soon  to  visit  her  Cousin  Emma  and  wanted 
Ted  to  join  her.  She  was  "dying"  to  see  him.  He 
could  stay  at  Cousin  Emma's,  but  maybe  he 
wouldn't  like  that  because  there  was  a  raft  of  chil- 
dren always  under  foot  and  Fred,  Emma's  husband, 
was  a  dreadful  "ordinary"  person  who  smoked  a 
smelly  pipe  and  sat  round  in  his  shirt  sleeves.  But 
if  he  would  come  and  stay  at  a  hotel  they  could 
have  a  wonderful  time.  She  did  want  to  see  him  so 
much.  Besides,  Willis  pestered  her  all  the  time 
and  said  if  she  went  away  he  would  come  down  in 
his  car  every  night  to  see  her.  So  if  Ted  didn't 
want  her  to  run  around  with  Willis  as  he  said  in 
his  last  letter  he  had  better  come  himself.  She 
didn't  like  Willis  the  way  she  did  Ted,  though. 
Some  ways  she  hated  him  and  she  wished  awfully 
she  hadn't  ever  had  anything  to  do  with  him.  And 


76  WILD  WINGS 


finally  she  liked  Ted  better  than  anybody  in  the 
world,  and  would  he  please,  please  come  to  Holyoke, 
because  she  wanted  him  to  so  very,  very  much? 

And  then  the  postscript.  "The  cut  is  going  to 
leave  a  scar,  I  am  most  sure.  I  don't  care.  I  like 
it.  It  makes  me  think  of  you  and  what  a  wonder- 
ful time  we  had  together  that  night." 

Ted  read  the  letter  coming  up  the  Hill,  and  for 
once  forebore  to  whistle  as  he  made  the  ascent.  His 
mind  was  busy.  A  week  of  Dunbury  calm  and 
sweet  do-nothing  had  sufficed  to  make  him  undeni- 
ably restless.  Madeline's  proposal  struck  him  as 
rather  a  jolly  idea  accordingly.  After  all,  she  was 
a  dandy  little  girl,  and  he  owed  her  a  lot  for  not 
making  any  fuss  over  his  nearly  killing  her.  He 
didn't  like  this  Hubbard  fellow,  either.  He  rather 
thought  it  was  his  duty  to  go  and  send  him  about 
his  business.  Ted  was  a  bit  of  a  knight,  at  heart, 
and  felt  now  the  chivalric  urge,  combining  with 
others  less  unselfish,  to  go  to  the  rescue  of  the  dam- 
sel and  set  her  free  of  the  false  besieger. 

Her  undisguised  admission  of  her  caring  for  him 
was  a  bit  disconcerting,  although  perhaps  also  a 
little  sweet  to  his  youthful  male  vanity.  Her 
caring  was  a  complication,  made  him  feel  as  if 
somehow  he  ought  to  make  up  to  her  for  failing, 
her  in  the  big  thing  by  granting  her  the  smaller 
favor. 

By  the  time  he  had  reached  the  top  of  the  Hill 
he  was  rather  definitely  committed  in  his  own  mind 
to  the  Holyoke  trip,  if  he  could  throw  enough  dust 
in  his  uncle's  eyes  to  get  away  with  it. 

Arrived  at  the  house  he  flung  the  other  mail  on 
the  hall  table  and  went  upstairs.  As  he  passed 
his  grandmother's  room  he  noticed  that  the  door 
was  ajar  and  stepped  in  for  a  word  with  her.  She 
looked  very  still  and  white  as  she  lay  there  in  the 
big,  old  fashioned  four-poster  bed!  Poor  Granny! 


DEVELOPMENTS  BY  MAIL  77 

It  was  awfully  sad  to  be  old.  Ted  couldn't  quite 
imagine  it  for  himself,  somehow. 

"  'Lo,  Granny  dear,"  he  greeted,  stooping  to  kiss 
the  withered  old  cheek.  "How  goes  it?" 

"About  as  usual,  dear.  Any  word  from  Larry?'' 
There  was  a  plaintive  note  in  Madame  Holiday's 
voice.  She  was  never  quite  content  unless  all  the 
"children"  were  under  the  family  roof-tree.  And 
Larry  was  particularly  dear  to  her  heart. 

"Yes,  I  just  brought  a  letter  for  Uncle  Phil.  The 
very  idea  of  your  wanting  Larry  when  you  have 
Tony  and  me,  and  you  haven't  had  us  for  so  long." 
Ted  pretended  to  be  reproachful  and  his  grand- 
mother reached  for  his  hand. 

"I  know,  dear  boy.  I  am  very  glad  to  have  you 
and  Tony.  But  Larry  is  a  habit,  like  Philip.  You 
mustn't  mind  my  missing  him." 

"Course  I  don't  mind,  Granny.  I  was  just  joss- 
ing.  I  don't  blame  you  a  bit  for  missing  Larry. 
He  is  a  mighty  good  thing  to  have  in  the  family. 
Wish  I  were  half  as  valuable." 

"You  are,  sonny.  I  am  so  happy  to  be  having 
you  here  all  summer." 

"Maybe  not  quite  all  summer.  I'll  be  going  off 
for  little  trips,"  he  prepared  her  gently. 

"Youth!  Youth!  Never  still — always  wanting 
to  fly  off  somewhere!" 

"We  all  fly  back  mighty  quick,"  comforted  Ted. 
"There  come  the  kiddies." 

A  patter  of  small  feet  sounded  down  the  hall.  In 
the  next  moment  they  were  there — sturdy  Eric,  the 
six  year  old,  apple-cheeked,  incredibly  energetic, 
already  bidding  fair  to  equal  if  not  to  rival  his 
cousin  Ted's  reputation  for  juvenile  naughtiness ; 
and  Hester,  two  years  younger,  a  rose-and-snow 
creation,  cherubic,  adorable,  with  bobbing  silver 
curls,  delectably  dimpled  elbows  and  corn  flower 
blue  eyes. 


78  WILD  WINGS 


Fresh  from  the  tub  and  the  daily  delightful  frolic 
with  Daddy,  they  now  appeared  for  that  other  cere- 
monial known  as  saying  good-night  to  Granny. 

"Teddy !  Teddy !  Ride  us  to  Granny,"  demanded 
Eric  hilariously,  jubilant  at  finding  his  favorite  tall 
cousin  on  the  spot. 

"  'Es,  wide  us,  wide  us/'  chimed  in  Hester,  not 
to  be  outdone. 

"You  fiends!"  But  Ted  obediently  got  down  on 
"all  fours"  while  the  small  folks  clambered  up  on 
his  back  and  he  "rode"  them  over  to  the  bed,  their 
bathrobes  flying  as  they  went.  Arrived  at  the  des- 
tination Ted  deftly  deposited  his  load  in  a  giggling, 
squirming  heap  on  the  rug  and  then  gathering  up 
the  small  Hester,  swung  her  aloft,  bringing  her 
down  with  her  rose  bud  of  a  mouth  close  to  Granny's 
pale  cheeks. 

"Kiss  your  flying  angel,  Granny,  before  she  flies 
away  again." 

"Me !  Me !"  clamored  Eric  vociferously,  hugging 
Ted's  knees.  "Me  flying  angel,  too!" 

"Not  much,"  objected  Ted.  "No  angel  about  you. 
Too,  too  much  solid  flesh  and  bones.  Kiss  Granny, 
quick.  I  hear  your  parients  approaching." 

Philip  and  Margery  appeared  on  the  threshold, 
seeking  their  obstreperous  offspring. 

There  was  another  stampede,  this  time  in  the 
direction  of  the  "parients." 

"Ca'y  me!     Ca'y  me,  Daddy,"  chirruped  Hester. 
"No,  me.     Ride  me  piggy-back,"  insisted  Eric. 
"Such   children!"    smiled    Margery.     "Ted,  you 
encourage  them.     They  are  more  barbarian  than 
ever  when  you  are  here,  and  they  are  bad  enough 
under  normal  conditions." 

Ted  chuckled  at  that.  He  and  his  Aunt  Margery 
were  the  best  of  good  friends.  They  always  had 
been  since  Ted  had  refused  to  join  her  Round  Table 
on  the  grounds  that  he  might  have  to  be  sorry  for 


DEVELOPMENTS  BY  MAIL  79 

being  bad  if  lie  did,  though  he  had  subsequently 
capitulated,  in  view  of  the  manifest  advantages  ac- 
cruing to  membership  in  the  order. 

"That's  right.  Lay  it  to  me.  I  don't  believe 
Uncle  Phil  was  a  saint,  either,  was  he,  Granny?" 
he  appealed.  "I'll  bet  the  kids  get  some  of  their 
deviltry  by  direct  line  of  descent." 

His  grandmother  smiled. 

"We  forget  a  good  deal  about  our  children's 
naughtinesses  when  they  are  grown  up,"  she  said. 
"I've  even  forgotten  some  of  yours,  Teddy." 

"Lucky,"  grinned  her  grandson,  stooping  to  kiss 
her  again.  "Allans,  enfants." 

Later,  when  the  obstreperous  ones  were  in  bed 
and  everything  quiet  Philip  and  Margery  sat  to- 
gether in  the  hammock,  lovers  still  after  eight  years 
of  strenuous  married  life  and  discussed  Larry's 
last  letter,  which  had  contained  the  rather  aston- 
ishing request  that  he  be  permitted  to  bring  the 
little  lady  who  had  forgotten  her  past  to  Holiday 
Hill  with  him. 

"Queer  proposition!"  murmured  the  doctor. 
"Doesn't  sound  like  sober  Larry." 

"I  am  not  so  sure.  There  is  a  quixotic  streak  in 
him — in  all  you  Holidays,  for  that  matter.  You 
can't  say  much.  Think  of  the  stray  boys  you  have 
taken  in  at  one  time  or  another,  some  of  them  rather 
dubious  specimens.,  I  infer." 

Margery's  eyes  smiled  tender  raillery  at  her  hus- 
band. He  chuckled  at  the  arraignment,  and  ad- 
mitted its  justice.  Still,  boys  were  not  mystery 
ladies.  She  must  grant  him  that.  Then  he  sobered. 

"It  is  only  you  that  makes  me  hesitate,  Margery 
mine.  You  are  carrying  about  as  heavy  a  burden 
now  as  any  one  woman  ought  to  take  upon  herself, 
with  me  and  the  house  and  the  children  and  Granny. 
And  here  is  this  crazy  nephew  of  mine  proposing 
the  addition  to  the  family  of  a  stranger  who  hasn't 


80  WILD  WINGS 


any  past  and  whose  future  seems  wrapped  mostly 
in  a  nebular  hypothesis.  It  is  rather  a  large  order, 
my  dear." 

"Not  too  large.  It  isn't  as  if  she  were  seriously 
ill,  or  would  be  a  burden  in  any  way.  Besides,  it 
is  Larry's  home  as  well  as  ours,  and  he  so  seldom 
asks  anything  for  himself,  and  is  always  ready  to 
help  anywhere.  Do  you  really  mind  her  coming, 
Phil?"  ' 

"Not  if  you  don't.  I  am  glad  to  agree  if  it  is  not 
going  to  be  too  hard  for  you.  As  you  say,  Larry 
doesn't  ever  ask  much  for  himself  and  I  am  inter- 
ested in  the  case,  anyway.  Shall  we  wire  him  to 
bring  her,  then?" 

"Please  do.     I  shall  be  very  glad." 

"You  are  a  wonder,  Margery  mine."  And  the 
doctor  bent  and  kissed  his  wife  before  going  in  to 
telephone  the  message  to  be  sent  his  nephew  that 
night,  a  message  bidding  him  and  the  little  stranger 
welcome,  whenever  they  cared  to  come  to  the  House 
on  the  Hill. 

And  far  away  in  Pittsburgh,  Larry  got  the  word 
that  night  and  smiled  content.  Bless  Uncle  Phil 
and  Aunt  Margery!  They  never  failed  you,  no 
matter  what  you  asked  of  them. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   LITTLE   LADY   WHO  FORGOT 

LARRY  HOLIDAY  was  a  rather  startlingly  energetic 
person  when  he  once  got  under  way.  The  next 
morning  he  overruled  the  "Mystery  Lady's"  faint 
demurs,  successfully  argued  the  senior  doctor 
into  agreement  with  his  somewhat  surprising  plan 
of  procedure,  wired  his  uncle,  engaged  train  reser- 
vations for  that  evening,  secured  a  nurse,  preempted 
the  services  of  a  Red  Cap  who  promised  to  be  wait- 
ing with  a  chair  at  the  station  so  that  the  little  in- 
valid would  not  have  to  set  foot  upon  the  ground, 
and  finally  carried  the  latter  with  his  own  str6ng 
young  arms  onto  the  train  and  into  a  large,  cool 
stateroom  where  a  fan  was  already  whirring  and 
the  white-clad  nurse  waiting  to  minister  to  the 
needs  of  the  frail  traveler. 

In  a  few  moments  the  train  was  slipping  smoothly 
out  of  the  station  and  the  girl  who  had  forgotten 
most  things  else  knew  that  she  was  being  spirited 
off  to  a  delightful  sounding  place  called  Holiday 
Hill  in  the  charge  of  a  gray-eyed  young  doctor  who 
had  made  himself  personally  responsible  for  her 
from  the  moment  he  had  extricated  her,  more  dead 
than  alive,  from  the  wreckage.  Somehow,  for  the 
moment  she  was  quite  content  with  the  knowledge. 

Leaving  his  charge  in  the  nurse's  care,  Larry 
Holiday  ensconced  himself  in  his  seat  not  far  from 
the  stateroom  and  pretended  to  read  his  paper. 
But  it  might  just  as  well  have  been  printed  in  an- 

81 


82  WILD  WINGS 


cient  Sanscrit  for  all  the  meaning  its  words  con- 
veyed to  his  brain.  His  corporeal  self  occupied  the 
green  plush  seat.  His  spiritual  person  was  else- 
where. 

After  fifteen  minutes  of  futile  effort  at  concentra- 
tion he  flung  down  the  paper  and  strode  to  the  door 
of  the  stateroom.  A  white  linen  arm  answered  his 
gentle  knock.  There  was  a  moment's  consultation, 
then  the  nurse  came  out  and  Larry  went  in. 

On  the  couch  the  girl  lay  very  still  with  half- 
closed  eyes.  Her  long  blonde  braids  tied  with  blue 
ribbons  lay  on  the  pillow  on  either  side  of  her  sweet, 
pale  little  face,  making  it  look  more  childlike  than 
ever. 

"I  can't  see  why  I  can't  remember,"  she  said  to 
Larry  as  he  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  other  cot 
opposite  her.  "I  try  so  hard." 

"Don't  try.  You  are  just  wearing  yourself  out 
doing  it.  It  will  be  all  right  in  time.  Don't 
worry." 

"I  can't  help  worrying.  It  is — oh,  it  is  horrible 
not  to  have  any  past — to  be  different  from  every- 
body in  the  world." 

"I  know.  It  is  mighty  tough  and  you  have  been 
wonderfully  brave  about  it.  But  truly  I  do  believe 
it  will  all  come  back.  And  in  the  meanwhile  you 
are  going  to  one  of  the  best  places  in  the  world  to 
get  well  in.  Take  my  wrord  for  it." 

"But  I  don't  see  why  I  should  be  going.  It  isn't 
as  if  I  had  any  claim  on  you  or  your  people.  Why 
are  you  taking  me  to  your  home?"  The  blue  eyes 
wTere  wide  open  now,  and  looking  straight  up  into 
Larry  Holiday's  gray  ones. 

Larry  smiled  and  Larry's  smile,  coming  out  of 
the  usual  gravity  and  repose  of  his  face,  was  ir- 
resistible. More  than  one  young  woman,  case  and 
non-case,  had  wished,  seeing  that  smile,  that  its 
owner  had,  eyes  for  girls  as  such. 


THE  LITTLE  LADY  WHO  FORGOT  83 

"Because  you  are  the  most  interesting  patient  I 
ever  had.  Don't  begrudge  it  to  me.  I  get  measles 
and  sore  throats  mostly.  .Do  you  wonder  I  snatched 
you  as  a  dog  grabs  a  bone?''  Then  he  sobered. 
"Truly,  Ruth — you  don't  mind  my  calling  you  that, 
do  you,  since  we  don't  know  your  other  name? — the 
Hill  is  the  one  place  in  the  world  for  you  just  now. 
You  will  forgive  my  kidnapping  you  when  you  see 
it  and  my  people.  You  can't  help  liking  it  and 
them.'; 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  not  liking  it  or  them  if — " 
She  had  meant  to  say  "if  they  are  at  all  like  you," 
but  that  seemed  a  little  too  personal  to  say  to  one's 
doctor,  even  a  doctor  who  had  saved  your  life  and 
had  the  most  wonderful  smile  that  ever  was,  and 
the  nicest  eyes.  "If  they  will  let  me,"  she  substi- 
tuted. "But  it  is  such  a  queer,  kind  thing  to  do. 
The  other  doctors  were  interested  in  me,  too,  as  a 
case.  But  it  didn't  occur  to  any  of  them  to  offer  me 
the  hospitality  of  their  homes  and  family  for 
an  unlimited  time.  Are  you  Holidays  all  like 
that?" 

"More  or  less,"  admitted  Larry  with  another 
smile.  "Maybe  we  are  a  bit  vain-glorious  about 
Holiday  hospitality.  It  is  rather  a  family  tradi- 
tion. The  House  on  the  Hill  has  had  open  doors 
ever  since  the  first  Holiday  built  it  nearly  two  hun- 
dred years  ago.  You  saw  Uncle  Phil's  wire.  He 
meant  that  'welcome  ready.'  You'll  see.  But  any- 
way it  won't  be  very  hard  for  them  to  open  the  door 
to  you.  They  will  all  love  you." 

She  shut  her  eyes  again  at  that.  Possibly  the 
young  doctor's  expression  was  rather  more  un-pro- 
fessionally  eloquent  than  he  knew. 

"Tired?"  he  asked. 

"Not  much — tired  of  wondering.  Maybe  my 
name  isn't  Euth  at  all." 

"Maybe  it  isn't.     But  it  is  a  name  anyway,  and 


84  WILD  WINGS 


you  may  as  well  use  it  for  the  present  until  you  can 
find  your  own.  I  think  Ruth  Annersley  is  a  pretty 
name  myself,"  added  the  young  doctor  seriously. 
"I  like  it." 

"Mrs.  Geoffrey  Annersley,"  corrected  the  girl. 
"That  is  rather  pretty  too." 

Larry  agreed  somewhat  less  enthusiastically. 

Ruth  lifted  her  hand  and  fell  to  twisting  the 
wedding  ring  which  was  very  loose  on  her  thin 
little  finger. 

"Think  of  being  married  and  not  knowing  wrhat 
your  husband  looks  like.  Poor  Geoffrey  Annersley ! 
I  wonder  if  he  cares  a  great  deal  for  me." 

"It  is  quite  possible,"  said  Larry  Holiday  grimly. 

He  had  taken  an  absurd  dislike  to  the  very  name 
of  Geoffrey  Annersley.  Why  didn't  the  man  appear 
and  claim  his  wife?  Practically  every  paper  from 
the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific  had  advertised  for  him. 
If  he  was  any  good  and  wanted  to  find  his  wife  he 
would  be  half  crazy  looking  for  her  by  this  time. 
He  must  have  seen  the  newspaper  notices.  There 
was  something  queer  about  this  Geoffrey  Anners- 
ley. Larry  Holiday  detested  him  cordially. 

"You  don't  suppose  he  was  killed  in  the  wreck, 
do  you?"  Ruth's  mind  worked  on,  trying  to  put 
the  pieces  of  the  puzzle  together. 

"You  were  traveling  alone.  Your  chair  was 
near  mine.  I  noticed  you  because  I  thought — " 
He  broke  off  abruptly. 

"Thought  what?" 

"That  you  wrere  the  prettiest  girl  I  ever  saw  in 
my  life,"  he  admitted.  "I  wanted  to  speak  to  you. 
Two  or  three  times  I  was  on  the  verge  of  it  but  I 
never  could  quite  get  up  the  courage.  I'm  not  much 
good  at  starting  conversations  with  girls.  My  kid 
brother,  Ted,  has  the  monopoly  of  that  sort  of  thing 
in  my  family." 

"Oh,  if  you  only  had,"  she  sighed.     "Maybe  I 


THE  LITTLE  LADY  WHO  FORGOT  85 

would  have  told  you  something  about  myself  and 
where  I  was  going  when  I  got  to  New  York." 

"I  wish  I  had,"  regretted  Larry.  "Confound  my 
shyness!  I  don't  see  why  anybody  ever  let  you 
travel  alone  from  San  Francisco  to  New  York  any- 
way," he  added.  "Your  Geoffrey  ought  to  have 
taken  better  care  of  you." 

"Maybe  I  haven't  a  Geoffrey.  The  fact  that 
there  was  an  envelope  in  my  bag  addressed  to  Mrs. 
Geoffrey  Annersley  doesn't  prove  that  I  am  Mrs. 
Geoffrey  Annersley." 

"No,  still  there  is  the  ring."  Larry  frowned 
thoughtfully.  "If  you  aren't  Mrs.  Geoffrey  Anners- 
ley you  must  be  Mrs.  Somebody  Else,  I  suppose. 
And  the  locket  says  Ruth  from  Geoffrey." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  I  am  Mrs.  Geoffrey  Anners- 
ley. It  seems  as  if  I  must  be.  But  why  can't  I 
remember?  It  seems  as  if  any  one  would  remember 
the  man  she  was  married  to — as  if  one  couldn't 
forget  that,  no  matter  what  happened.  But  if 
there  is  a  Geoffrey  Annersley  why  doesn't  he  come 
and  get  me  and  make  me  remember  him?" 

Larry  shook  his  head. 

"Don't  worry,  please.  We'll  keep  on  advertising. 
He  is  bound  to  come  before  long  if  he  really  is  your 
husband.  Some  day  he  will  be  coming  up  our  hill 
and  run  away  with  you,  worse  luck!" 

Ruth's  eyes  were  on  the  ring  again. 

"It  is  funny,"  she  said.  "But  I  can't  make  my- 
self feel  married.  I  can't  make  the  ring  mean  any- 
thing to  me.  I  don't  want  it  to  mean  anything. 
I  don't  want  to  be  married.  Sometimes  I  dream 
that  Geoffrey  Annersley  has  come  and  I  put 
my  hand  over  my  eyes  because  I  don't  want  to  see 
him.  Isn't  that  dreadful?"  she  turned  to  Larry  to 
ask. 

"You  can't  help  it."  Larry  tried  manfully  to 
push  back  his  own  wholly  unreasonable  satisfaction 


86  WILD  WINGS 


in  her  aversion  to  her  presumptive  husband.  "It  is 
the  blow  and  the  shock  of  the  whole  thing.  It  will 
be  all  right  in  time.  You  will  fall  on  your  Geoff- 
rey's neck  and  call  him  blessed  when  the  time 
comes." 

"I  don't  believe  he  is  coming,"  she  announced 
suddenly  with  conviction. 

Larry  got  up  and  walked  over  to  her  couch. 

"What  makes  you  say  that?"  he  demanded. 

"I  don't  know.  It  was  just  a  feeling  I  had. 
Something  inside  me  said  right  out  loud :  'He  isn't 
coming.  He  isn't  your  husband.'  Maybe  it  is  be- 
cause I  don't  want  him  to  come  and  don't  want  him 
to  be  my  husband.  Oh,  dear!  It  is  all  so  queer 
and  mixed  up  and  horrid.  It  is  awful  not  to  be 
anybody — just  a  ghost.  I  wish  I'd  been  killed. 
Why  didn't  you  leave  me?  Why  did  you  dig  me 
out?  All  the  others  said  I  was  dead.  Why  didn't 
you  let  me  be  dead?  It  would  have  been  better." 

She  turned  her  face  away  and  buried  it  in  the 
pillow,  sobbing  softly,  suddenly  like  a  child. 

This  was  too  much  for  Larry.  He  dropped  on 
his  knees  beside  her  and  put  his  arms  around  the 
quivering  little  figure. 

"Don't,  Ruth,"  he  implored.  "Don't  cry  and 
don't — don't  wish  you  were  dead.  I — I  can't  stand 
it." 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door.  Larry  got  to  his 
feet  in  guilty  haste  and  went  to  the  door  of  the 
stateroom. 

"It  is  time  for  Mrs.  Annersley's  medicine,"  an- 
nounced the  nurse  impersonally,  entering  and 
going  over  to  the  wash  stand  for  a  glass. 

The  white  linen  back  safely  turned,  Larry  gave 
one  swift  look  at  Ruth  and  bolted,  shutting  the 
door  behind  him.  The  nurse  turned  to  look  at  the 
patient  whose  face  was  still  hidden  in  the  pillow 
and  then  her  gaze  traveled  meditatively  toward  the 


THE  LITTLE  LADY  WHO  FORGOT  87 

door  out  of  which  the  young  doctor  had  shot  so 
precipitately.  Larry  had  forgotten  that  there  was 
a  mirror  over  the  wash  stand  and  that  nurses,  how- 
ever impersonal,  are  still  women  with  eyes  in  their 
heads. 

"H — m,"  reflected  the  onlooker.  "I  wouldn't 
have  thought  he  was  that  kind.  You  never  can 
tell  about  men,  especially  doctors.  I  wish  him  joy 
falling  in  love  with  a  woman  who  doesn't  know 
whether  or  not  she  has  a  husband.  Your  tablets, 
Mrs.  Annersley,"  she  added  aloud. 

"Larry,  I  think  your  Ruth  is  the  dearest  thing 
I  ever  laid  eyes  on,"  declared  Tony  next  day  to  her 
brother.  "Her  name  ought  to  be  Titania.  I'm  not 
very  big  myself,  but  I  feel  like  an  Amazon  beside 
her.  And  her  laugh  is  the  sweetest  thing — so  soft 
and  silvery,  like  little  bells.  But  she  doesn't  laugh 
much,  does  she?  Poor  little  thing!" 

"She  is  awfully  up  against  it,"  said  Larry  with 
troubled  eyes.  "She  can't  stop  trying  to  remember. 
It  is  a  regular  obsession  with  her.  And  she  is  very 
shy  and  sensitive  and  afraid  of  strangers." 

"She  doesn't  look  at  you  as  if  you  were  a  stranger. 
She  adores  you." 

"Nonsense!"  said  Larry  sharply. 

Tony  opened  her  eyes  at  her  brother's  tone. 

"Why,  Larry !  Of  course,  I  didn't  mean  she  was 
in  love  with  you.  She  couldn't  be  when  she  is 
married.  I  just  meant  she  adored  you — well,  the 
way  Max  adores  me,"  she  explained  as  the  tawny- 
haired  Irish  setter  came  and  rested  his  head  on  her 
knee,  raising  solemn  worshipful  brown  eyes  to  her 
face.  "Why  shouldn't  she?  You  saved  her  life 
and  you  have  been  wonderful  to  her  every  way." 

"Nonsense!"  said  Larry  again,  though  he  said  it 
in  a  different  tone  this  time.  "I  haven't  done  much. 
It  is  Uncle  Phil  and  Aunt  Margery  who  are  the 


88  WILD  WINGS 


wonderful  ones.  It  is  great  the  way  they  both 
said  yes  right  away  when  I  asked  if  I  could  bring 
her  here.  I  tell  you,  Tony,  it  means  something  to 
have  your  own  people  the  kind  you  can  count  on 
every  time.  And  it  is  great  to  have  a  home  like 
this  to  bring  her  to.  She  is  going  to  love  it  as  soon 
as  she  is  able  to  get  downstairs  with  us  all." 

Up  in  her  cool,  spacious  north  chamber,  lying 
in  the  big  bed  with  the  smooth,  fine  linen,  Ruth  felt 
as  if  she  loved  it  already,  though  she  found  these 
Holidays  even  more  amazing  than  ever,  now  that 
she  was  actually  in  their  midst.  Were  there  any 
other  people  in  the  world  like  them  she  wondered — 
so  kind  and  simple  and  unfeignedly  glad  to  take  a 
stranger  into  their  home  and  a  queer,  mysterious, 
sick  stranger  at  that! 

"If  I  have  to  begin  living  all  over  just  like  a  baby 
I  think  I  am  the  luckiest  girl  that  ever  was  to  be 
able  to  start  in  a  place  like  this  with  such  dear, 
kind  people  all  around  me,"  she  told  Doctor  Holi- 
day, senior,  to  whom  she  had  immediately  lost  her 
heart  as  soon  as  she  saw  his  smile  and  felt  the  touch 
of  his  strong,  magnetic,  healing  hand. 

"We  will  get  you  out  under  the  trees  in  a  day  or 
two,"  he  said.  "And  then  your  business  will  be  to 
get  well  and  strong  as  soon  as  possible  and  not 
worry  about  anything  any  more  than  if  you  were 
the  baby  you  were  just  talking  about.  Can  you 
manage  that,  young  lady?" 

"I'll  try.  I  would  be  horrid  and  ungrateful  not 
to  when  you  are  all  so  good  to  me.  I  don't  believe 
my  own  people  are  half  as  nice  as  you  Holidays. 
I  don't  see  how  they  could  be." 

The  doctor  laughed  at  that. 

"We  will  let  it  go  at  that  for  the  present.  You 
will  be  singing  another  tune  when  your  Geoffrey 
Annersley  comes  up  the  Hill  to  claim  you." 

The  girl's  expressive  face  clouded  over  at  that. 


THE  LITTLE  LADY  WHO  FORGOT  89 

She  did  not  quite  dare  to  tell  Doctor  Holiday  as 
she  had  his  nephew  that  she  did  not  want  to  see 
Geoffrey  Annersley  nor  to  have  to  know  she  was 
married  to  him.  It  sounded  horrid,  but  it  was  true. 
Sometimes  she  hated  the  very  thought  of  Geoffrey 
Annersley. 

Later  Doctor  Holiday  and  his  nephew  went  over 
the  girl's  case  together  from  both  the  personal  and 
professional  angles.  There  was  little  enough  to 
go  on  in  untangling  her  mystery.  The  railway 
tickets  which  had  been  found  in  her  purse  were  in 
an  un-postmarked  envelope  bearing  the  name  Mrs. 
Geoffrey  Annersley,  but  no  address.  The  bag- 
gage train  had  been  destroyed  by  fire  at  the  time  of 
the  accident,  so  there  were  no  trunks  to  give  evi- 
dence. The  small  traveling  bag  she  had  carried 
with  her  bore  neither  initial  nor  geographical  desig- 
nation, and  contained  nothing  which  gave  any  clew 
as  to  its  owner's  identity  save  that  she  was  pre- 
sumably a  person  of  wealth,  for  her  possessions 
were  exquisite  and  obviously  costly.  A  small  jewel 
box  contained  various  valuable  rings,  one  or  two 
pendants  and  a  string  of  matched  pearls  which 
even  to  uninitiated  eyes  spelled  a  fortune.  Also, 
oddly  enough,  among  the  rest  was  an  absurd  little 
childish  gold  locket  inscribed  "Kuth  from  Geof- 
frey." 

She  had  worn  no  rings  at  all  except  for  a  single 
platinum-set,  and  very  perfect,  diamond  and  a  plain 
gold  band,  obviously  a  wedding  ring.  The  infer- 
ence was  that  she  was  married  and  that  her  hus- 
band's name  was  Geoffrey  Annersley,  but  where 
he  was  and  why  she  was  traveling  across  the 
United  States  alone  and  from  whence  she  had  come 
remained  utterly  unguessable.  Larry  had  seen  to 
it  that  advertisements  for  Geoffrey  Annersley  were 
inserted  in  every  important  paper  from  coast  to 
coast  but  nothing  had  come  of  any  of  his  efforts. 


90  WILD  WINGS 


As  for  the  strange  lapse  of  memory,  there  seemed 
nothing  to  do  but  wait  in  the  hope  that  recovered 
health  and  strength  might  bring  it  back. 

"It  may  come  bit  by  bit  or  by  a  sudden  bound 
or  never,"  was  Doctor  Holiday's  opinion.  "There 
is  nothing  that  I  know  of  that  she  or  you  or  any 
one  can  dp  except  let  nature  take  her  course.  It 
is  a  case  of  time  and  patience.  I  am  glad  you 
brought  her  to  us.  Margery  and  I  are  very  glad 
to  have  her." 

"You  are  awfully  good,  Uncle  Phil.  I  do  ap- 
preciate it  and  it  is  great  to  have  you  behind  me 
professionally.  I  haven't  got  a  great  deal  of  confi- 
dence in  myself.  Doctoring  scares  me  sometimes. 
It  is  such  a  fearful  responsibility." 

"It  is,  but  you  are  going  to  be  equal  to  it.  The 
confidence  will  come  with  experience.  You  need 
have  no  lack  of  faith  in  yourself ;  I  haven't.  There 
is  no  reason  why  I  should  have,  when  I  get  letters 
like  this." 

The  senior  doctor  leaned  over  and  extracted  old 
Doctor  Fenton's  letter  from  a  cubby  hole  in  his  desk 
and  gave  it  to  his  nephew  to  read.  The  latter  pe- 
rused it  in  silence  with  slightly  heightened  color. 
Praise  always  embarrassed  him. 

"He  is  too  kind,"  he  observed  as  he  handed  back 
the  letter.  "I  didn't  do  much  out  there,  precious 
little  in  fact  but  what  I  was  told  to  do.  I  figured 
it  out  that  we  young  ones  were  the  privates  and  it 
was  up  to  us  to  take  orders  from  the  captains  who 
knew  their  business  better  than  we  did  and  get 
busy.  I  worked  on  that  basis." 

"Sound  basis.  I  am  not  afraid  that  a  man  who 
can  obey  well  won't  be  able  to  command  well  when 
the  time  comes.  It  isn't  a  small  thing  to  be  recog- 
nized as  a  true  Holiday,  either.  It  is  something 
to  be  proud  of." 

"I  am  proud,  Uncle  Phil.     There  is  nothing  I 


THE  LITTLE  LADY  WHO  FORGOT  91 

would  rather  hear — and  deserve.  But,  if  I  am  any- 
where near  the  Holiday  standard,  it  is  you  mostly 
that  brought  me  up  to  it.  I  don't  mean  any  dis- 
praise of  Dad.  He  was  fine  and  I  am  proud  to  be 
his  son.  But  he  never  understood  me.  I  didn't 
have  enough  dash  and  go  to  me  for  him.  Ted  and 
Tony  are  both  more  his  kind,  though  I  don't  believe 
either  of  them  loved  him  as  I  did.  But  you 
seemed  to  understand  always.  You  helped  me  to 
believe  in  myself.  It  was  the  best  thing  that 
could  have  happened  to  me,  coming  to  you  when 
I  did." 

Larry  turned  to  the  mantel  and  picked  up  a 
photograph  of  himself  which  stood  there,  a  lad  of 
fifteen  or  so,  facing  the  world  with  grave,  sensitive 
eyes,  the  Larry  he  had  been  when  he  came  to  the 
House  on  the  Hill.  He  smiled  at  his  uncle  over 
the  boy's  picture. 

"You  burned  out  the  plague  spots,  too,  with  a 
mighty  hot  iron,  some  of  them,"  he  added.  "I'll 
never  forget  your  sitting  there  in  that  very  chair 
telling  me  I  was  a  lazy,  selfish  snob  and  that,  all 
things  considered,  I  didn't  measure  up  for  a  nickel 
with  Dick.  Jerusalem!  I  wonder  if  you  knew 
how  that  hit.  I  had  a  fairly  good  opinion  of  Larry 
Holiday  in  some  ways  and  you  rather  knocked  the 
spots  out  of  it,  comparing  me  to  my  disadvantage 
with  a  circus  runaway." 

He  replaced  the  picture,  the  smile  still  lingering 
on  his  face. 

"It  was  the  right  medicine  though.  I  needed 
it.  I  can  see  that  now.  Speaking  of  doses  I  wish 
you  would  make  Ted  tutor  this  summer.  I  don't 
know  whether  he  has  told  you.  I  rather  think  not. 
But  he  flunked  so  many  courses  he  will  have  to 
drop  back  a  year  unless  he  makes'  up  the  work  and 
takes  examinations  in  the  fall." 

The  senior  doctor  drummed  thoughtfully  on  the 


92  WILD  WINGS 


desk.     So  that  was  what  the  boy  had  on  his  mind. 

"Why  not  speak  to  him  yourself?''  he  asked  after 
a  minute. 

"And  be  sent  to  warm  regions  as  I  was  last 
spring  when  I  ventured  to  give  his  lord  highrnighti- 
ness  some  advice.  No  good,  Uncle  Phil.  He  won't 
listen  to  me.  He  just  gets  mad  and  swings  off  in 
the  other  direction.  I  don't  handle  him  right. 
Haven't  your  patience  and  tact.  I  wonder  if  he 
ever  will  get  any  sense  into  his  head.  He  is  the 
best  hearted  kid  in  the  world,  and  I'm  crazy  over 
him,  but  he  does  rile  me  to  the  limit  with  his  fifty- 
seven  varieties  of  foolness." 


CHAPTER  IX 

TED   SEIZES   THE   DAY 

THE  next  morning  Ted  strolled  into  his  uncle's 
office  to  ask  if  the  latter  had  any  objections  to  his 
accepting  an  invitation  to  a  house-party  from  Hal 
Underwood,  a  college  classmate,  at  the  latter's  home 
near  Springfield. 

The  doctor  considered  a  moment  before  answer- 
ing. He  knew  all  about  the  Underwoods  and  knew 
that  his  erratic  nephew  could  not  be  in  a  safer, 
pleasanter  place.  Also  his  quick  wit  saw  a  chance 
to  put  the  screws  on  the  lad  in  connection  with  the 
tutoring  business. 

"I  suppose  your  June  allowance  is  able  to  float 
your"  traveling  expenses,"  he  remarked  less  guile- 
lessly than  the  remark  sounded. 

The  June  allowance  wTas,  it  seemed,  the  missing 
link. 

"I  thought  maybe  you  would  be  willing  to  allow 
me  a  little  extra  this  month  on  account  of  com- 
mencement stunts.  It  is  darned  expensive  sending 
nosegays  to  sweet  girl  graduates.  I  couldn't  help 
going  broke.  Honest  I  couldn't,  Uncle  Phil." 
Then  as  his  uncle  did  not  leap  at  the  suggestion 
offered,  the  speaker  changed  his  tack.  "Anyway, 
you  would  be  willing  to  let  me  have  my  July  money 
ahead  of  time,  wouldn't  you?''  he  ingratiated.  "It 
is  only  ten  days  to  the  first." 

But  Doctor  Holiday  still  chose  to  be  inconven- 
iently irrelevant. 

J  93 


94  WILD  WINGS 


"Have  you  any  idea  how  much  my  bill  was  for 
repairing  the  car?"  he  asked. 

Ted  shook  his  head  shamefacedly,  and  bent  to 
examine  a  picture  in  a  magazine  which  lay  on  the 
desk.  He  wasn't  anxious  to  have  the  car  incident 
resurrected.  He  had  thought  it  decently  buried 
by  this  time,  having  heard  no  more  about  it. 

"It  was  a  little  over  a  hundred  dollars,"  contin- 
ued the  doctor. 

The  boy  looked  up,  genuinely  distressed. 

"Gee,  Uncle  Phil!     It's  highway  robbery." 

"Scarcely.  All  things  considered,  it  was  a  very 
fair  bill.  A  hundred  dollars  is  a  good  deal  to  pay 
for  the  pleasure  of  nearly  getting  yourself  and 
somebody  else  killed,  Ted." 

Ted  pulled  his  forelock  and  had  nothing  to  say. 

"Were  you  in  earnest  about  paying  up  for  that 
particular  bit  of  folly,  son?" 

"Why,  yes.  At  least  I  didn't  think  it  would  be 
any  such  sum  as  that,"  Ted  hedged.  "I'll  be 
swamped  if  I  try  to  pay  it  out  of  my  allowance. 
I  can't  come  out  even,  as  it  is.  Couldn't  you  take 
it  out  of  my  own  money — what's  coming  to  me  when 
I'm  of  age?" 

"I  could,  if  getting  myself  paid  were  the  chief 
consideration.  As  it  happens,  it  isn't.  I'm  sorry 
if  I  seem  to  be  hard  on  you,  but  I  am  going  to  hold 
you  to  your  promise,  even  if  it  pinches  a  bit.  I 
think  you  know  why.  How  about  it,  son?" 

"I  suppose  it  has  to  go  that  way  if  you  say  so," 
said  Ted  a  little  sulkily.  "Can  I  pay  it  in  small 
amounts?" 

"How  small?  Dollar  a  year?  I'd  hate  to  wait 
until  I  was  a  hundred  and  forty  or  so  to  get  my 
money  back." 

The  boy  grinned  reluctantly,  answering  the 
friendly  twinkle  in  his  uncle's  eyes.  He  was  re- 
lieved that  a  joke  had  penetrated  what  had  begun  to 


TED  SEIZES  THE  DAY  95 

appear  to  be  an  unpleasantly  jestless  interview.  He 
hated  to  be  called  to  account.  Like  many  another 
older  sinner  he  liked  dancing,  but  found  paying  the 
piper  an  irksome  business. 

"Nonsense,  Uncle  Phil!  I  meant  real  paying. 
Will  ten  dollars  a  month  do?" 

"It  will,  provided  you  don't  try  to  borrow  ahead 
each  month  from  the  next  one." 

"I  won't,"  glibly.  "If  you  will-  The  boy 
broke  off  and  had  the  grace  to  look  confused,  realiz- 
ing he'had  been  about  to  do  the  very  thing  he  had 
promised  in  the  same  breath  not  to  do.  "Then 
that  means  I  can't  go  to  Hal's,"  he  added  soberly. 

He  felt  sober.  There  was  more  than  Hal  and 
the  house-party  involved,  though  the  latter  had 
fallen  in  peculiarly  fortuitous  with  his  other 
plans.  He  had  rashly  written  Madeline  he  would 
be  in  Holyoke  next  week  as  she  desired,  and  the 
first  of  July  and  his  allowance  would  still  be  just 
out  of  reach  next  week.  It  was  a  confounded  nui- 
sance, to  say  the  least,  being  broke  just  now,  with 
Uncle  Phil  turned  stuffy. 

"No,  I  don't  want  you  to  give  up  your  house- 
party,  though  that  rests  with  you.  I'll  make  a 
bargain  with  you.  I'll  advance  your  whole  July 
allowance  minus  ten  dollars  Saturday  morning." 

Ted's  face  cleared,  beamed  like  sudden  sunshine 
on  a  cloudy  March  day. 

"You  will!  Uncle  Phil,  you  certainly  are  a 
peach!"  And  in  his  exuberance  he  tossed  his  cap 
to  the  ceiling,  catching  it  deftly  on  his  nose  as  it 
descended. 

"Hold  on.  Don't  rejoice  too  soon.  It  was  to  be 
a  bargain,  you  know.  You  have  heard  only  one 


"Oh  —  h!"     The  exclamation  was  slightly  crest- 
fallen. 

"I  understand  that  you  fell  down  on  most  of 


96  WILD  WINGS 


your  college  work  this  spring.     Is  that  correct?" 

This  was  a  new  complication  and  just  as  he  had 
thought  he  was  safely  out  of  the  woods,  too.  Ted 
hung  his  head,  gave  consent  to  his  uncle's  question 
by  silence  and  braced  himself  for  a  lecture,  though 
he  was  a  little  relieved  that  he  need  not  bring  up 
the  subject  of  that  inconvenient  flunking  of  his, 
himself;  that  his  uncle  was  already  prepared,  who- 
ever it  was  that  had  told  tales.  The  lecture  did 
not  come,  however. 

"Here  is  the  bargain.  I  will  advance  the  money 
as  I  said,  provided  that  as  soon  as  you  get  back  from 
Hal's  you  will  make  arrangements  to  tutor  with 
Mr.  Caldwell  this  summer,  in  all  the  subjects  you 
failed  in  and  promise  to  put  in  two  months  of  good, 
solid  cramming,  no  half  way  about  it." 

"Gee,  Uncle  Phil !     It's  vacation." 

"You  don't  need  a  vacation.  If  all  I  hear  of  you 
is  true,  or  even  half  of  it,  you  made  your  whole 
college  year  one  grand,  sweet  vacation.  What  is 
the  answer?  Want  time  to  think  the  proposition 
over?" 

"No — o.  I  guess  I'll  take  you  up.  I  suppose 
I'll  have  to  tutor  anyway  if  I  don't  want  to  drop 
back  a  class,  and  I  sure  don't,"  Ted  admitted  hon- 
estly. "Unless  you'll  let  me  quit  and  you  won't. 
It  is  awfully  tough,  though.  You  never  made 
Tony  or  Larry  kill  themselves  studying  in  vaca- 
tions. I  don't  see— 

"Neither  Tony  or  Larry  ever  flunked  a  college 
course.  It  remained  for  you  to  be  the  first  Holi- 
day to  wear  a  dunce  cap." 

Ted  flushed  angrily  at  that.  The  shot  went 
home,  as  the  doctor  intended  it  should.  He  knew 
when  to  hit  and  how  to  do  it  hard,  as  Larry  had 
testified. 

"Fool's  cap  if  you  like,  Uncle  Phil.  I  am  not  a 
dunce." 


TED  SEIZES  THE  DAY  97 

"I  rather  think  that  is  true.  Anyway,  prove  it 
to  us  this  summer  and  there  is  no  one  who  will  be 
gladder  than  I  to  take  back  the  aspersion.  Is  it 
understood  then?  You  have  your  house-party  and 
when  you  come  back  you  are  pledged  to  honest 
work,  no  shirking,  no  requests  for  time  off,  no 
complaints.  Have  I  your  word?" 

Ted  considered.  He  thought  he  was  paying  a 
stiff  price  for  his  house-party  and  his  lark  with 
Madeline.  He  could  give  up  the  first,  though  a 
fellow  always  had  a  topping  time  at  Hal's ;  but  he 
couldn't  quite  see  himself  owning  ignominiously  to 
Madeline  that  he  couldn't  keep  his  promise  to  her 
because  of  empty  pockets.  Morever,  as  he  had  ad- 
mitted, he  would  have  to  tutor  anyway,  probably, 
and  he  might  as  well  get  some  gain  out  of  the  pain. 

"I  promise,  Uncle  Phil." 

"Good.  Then  that  is  settled.  I  am  not  going 
to  say  anything  more  about  the  flunking.  You 
know  how  we  all  feel  about  it.  I  think  you  have 
sense  enough  and  conscience  enough  to  see  it  about 
the  way  the  rest  of  us  do." 

Ted's  eyes  were  down  again  now.  Somehow 
Uncle  Phil  always  made  him  feel  worse  by  what  he 
didn't  say  than  a  million  sermons  from  other  people 
would  have  done.  He  would  have  gladly  have  given 
up  the  projected  journey  and  anything  else  he 
possessed  this  moment  if  he  could  have  had  a  clean 
slate  to  show.  But  it  was  too  late  for  that  now. 
He  had  to  take  the  consequences  of  his  own  folly. 

"I  see  it  all  right,  Uncle  Phil,"  he  said  looking  up. 
"Trouble  is  I  never  seem  to  have  the  sense  to  look 
until— afterward.     You  are  awfully  decent  about 
it  and  letting  me  go  to  Hal's  and — everything.     I— 
I'll  be  gone  about  a  week,  do  you  mind?" 

"No.  Stay  as  long  as  you  like.  I  am  satisfied 
with  your  promise  to  make  good  when  you  do 
come." 


98  WILD  WINGS 


Ted  slipped  away  quickly  then.  He  was  ashamed 
to  meet  his  uncle's  kind  eyes.  He  knew  he  was 
playing  a  crooked  game  with  stacked  cards.  He 
hadn't  exactly  lied — hadn't  said  a  word  that  wasn't 
strictly  true,  indeed.  He  was  going  to  Hal's,  but 
he  had  let  his  uncle  think  he  was  going  to  stay 
there  the  whole  week  whereas  in  reality  he  meant 
to  spend  the  greater  part  of  the  time  in  Madeline 
Taylor's  society,  which  was  not  in  the  bargain  at 
all.  Well  he  would  make  up  later  by  keeping  his 
promise  about  the  studying.  He  would  show  them 
Larry  wasn't  the  only  Holiday  who  could  make 
good.  The  dunce  cap  jibe  rankled. 

And  so,  having  satisfied  his  sufficiently  elastic 
conscience,  he  departed  on  Saturday  for  Spring- 
field and  adjacent  points. 

He  had  the  usual  "topping"  time  at  Hal's  and 
tore  himself  away  with  the  utmost  reluctance  from 
the  house-party,  had  half  a  mind,  indeed,  to  wire 
Madeline  he  couldn't  come  to  Holyoke.  But  after 
all  that  seemed  rather  a  mean  thing  to  do  after 
having  treated  her  so  rough  before,  and  in  the  end 
he  had  gone,  only  one  day  later  than  he  had  prom- 
ised. 

It  was  characteristic  that,  arrived  at  his  destina- 
tion, he  straightway  forgot  the  pleasures  he  was 
foregoing  at  Hal's  and  plunged  whole-heartedly 
into  amusing  himself  to  the  utmost  with  Mad- 
eline Taylor.  Carpe  Diem  was  Ted  Holiday's 
motto. 

Madeline  had  indeed  proved  unexpectedly  pretty 
and  attractive  when  she  opened  the  door  to  him 
on  Cousin  Emma's  little  box  of  a  front  porch,  clad 
all  in  white  and  wearing  no  extraneous  ornament 
of  any  sort,  blushing  delightfully  and  obviously 
more  than  glad  of  his  coming.  He  would  not  have 
been  Ted  Holiday  if  he  hadn't  risen  to  the  occasion. 
The  last  girl  in  sight  was  usually  the  only  girl  for 


TED  SEIZES  THE  DAY  99 

him  so  long  as  she  was  in  sight  and  sufficiently 
jolly  and  good  to  look  upon. 

A  little  later  Madeline  donned  a  trim  tailored 
black  sailor  hat  and  a  pretty  and  becoming  pale 
green  sweater  and  the  two  went  down  the  steps 
together,  bound  for  an  excursion  to  the  park.  As 
they  descended  Ted's  hand  slipped  gallantly  under 
the  girl's  elbow  and  she  leaned  on  it  ever  so  little, 
reveling  in  the  ceremony  and  prolonging  it  as 
much  as  possible.  Well  she  knew  that  Cousin 
Emma  and  the  children  were  peering  out  from  be- 
hind the  curtains  of  the  front  bedroom  upstairs,  and 
that  Mrs.  Bascom  and  her  stuck  up  daughter  Lily 
had  their  faces  glued  to  the  pane  next  door.  They 
would  all  see  that  this  was  no  ordinary  beau,  but 
a  real  swell  like  the  magnificent  young  men  in  the 
movies.  Perhaps  as  she  descended  Cousin  Emma's 
steps  and  went  down  the  path  between  the  tiger 
lilies  and  peonies  that  flanked  the  graveled  path 
with  Ted  Holiday  beside  her,  Madeline  Taylor  had 
her  one  perfect  moment. 

Only  the  "ordinary"  Fred,  on  hearing  his  wife's 
voluble  descriptions  later  of  Madeline's  "grand" 
young  man  failed  to  be  suitably  impressed.  "Them 
swells  don't  mean  no  girl  no  good  no  time,"  he  had 
summed  up  his  views  with  sententious  accumula- 
tion of  negatives. 

But  little  enough  did  either  Ted  or  Madeline 
reck  of  Fred's  or  any  other  opinion  as  they  fared 
their  blithe  and  care-free  way  that  gala  week.  The 
rest  of  the  world  was  supremely  unimportant  as 
they  went  canoeing  and  motoring  and  trolley  riding 
and  mountain  climbing  and  "movieing"  together. 
Madeline  strove  with  all  her  might  to  dress  and  act 
and  fee  as  nearly  like  those  other  girls  after  whom 
she  was  modeling  herself  as  possible,  to  do  nothing, 
which  could  jar  on  Ted  in  any  way  or  remind  him 
that  she  was  "different."  In  her  happiness  and 


100  WILD  WINGS 


sincere  desire  to  please  she  succeeded  remarkably 
well  in  making  herself  superficially  at  least  very 
much  like  Ted's  own  "kind  of  girl"  and  though 
with  true  masculine  obtuseness  he  was  entirely 
unaware  of  the  conscious  effort  she  was  putting  into 
the  performance  nevertheless  he  enjoyed  the  results 
in  full  and  played  up  to  her  undeniable  charms 
with  his  usual  debonair  and  heedless  grace  and 
gallantry. 

The  one  thing  that  had  been  left  out  of  the  pro- 
gram for  lack  of  suitable  opportunity  wras  dancing, 
an  omission  not  to  be  tolerated  by  two  strenuous 
and  modern  young  persons  who  would  rather  fox 
trot  than  eat  any  day.  Accordingly  on  Thursday 
it  was  agreed  that  they  should  repair  to  the  White 
Swan,  a  resort  down  the  river,  famous  for  its  ex- 
cellent cuisine,  its  perfect  dance  floor  and  its 
"snappy"  negro  orchestra.  Both  Ted  and  Madeline 
knew  that  the  Swan  had  also  a  reputation  of  an- 
other less  desirable  sort,  but  both  were  willing  to 
ignore  the  fact  for  the  sake  of  enjoying  the  "j oiliest 
jazz  on  the  river"  as  the  advertisement  read.  The 
dance  was  the  thing. 

It  was,  indeed.  The  evening  was  decidedly  the 
best  yet,  as  both  averred,  pirouetting  and  spinning 
and  romping  through  one  fox  trot  and  one  step 
after  another.  The  excitement  of  the  music,  the 
general  air  of  exhilaration  about  the  place  and 
their  own  high-pitched  mood  made  the  occasion 
different  from  the  other  gaieties  of  the  week,  mer- 
rier, madder,  a  little  more  reckless. 

Once,  seeing  a  painted,  over-dressed  or  rather 
under-dressed,  girl  in  the  arms  of  a  pasty-faced, 
protruding-eyed  roue,  both  obviously  under  the 
spell  of  too  much  liquid  inspiration,  Ted  suffered 
a  momentary  revulsion  and  qualm  of  conscience. 
He  shouldn't  have  brought  Madeline  here.  It 
wasn't  the  sort  of  place  to  bring  a  girl,  no  matter 


TED  SEIZES  THE  DAY  101 

how  good  the  music  was.  Oh,  well!  What  did  it 
matter  just  this  once?  They  were  there  now  and 
they  might  as  well  get  all  the  fun  they  could  out 
of  it.  The  music  started  up,  he  held  out  his  hand 
to  Madeline  and  they  wheeled  into  the  maze  of 
dancers,  the  girl's  pliant  body  yielding  to  his  arms, 
her  eyes  brilliant  with  excitement.  They  danced 
on  and  on  and  it  was  amazingly  and  imprudently 
late  when  they  finally  left  the  Swan  and  went  home 
to  Cousin  Emma's  house. 

Texl  had  meant  to  leave  Madeline  at  the  gate,  but 
somehow  he  lingered  and  followed  the  girl  out  into 
the  yard  behind  the  house  where  they  seated  them- 
selves in  the  hammock  in  the  shade  of  the  lilac 
bushes.  And  suddenly,  without  any  warning,  he 
had  her  in  his  arms  and  was  kissing  her  tempest- 
uously. 

It  was  only  for  a  moment,  however.  He  pulled 
himself  together,  hot  cheeked  and  ashamed  and 
flung  himself  out  of  the  hammock.  Madeline  sat 
very  still,  not  saying  a  word,  as  she  watched  him 
march  to  and  fro  between  the  beds  of  verbena  and 
love-lies-bleeding  and  portulaca.  Presently  he 
paused  beside  the  hammock,  looking  down  at  the 
girl. 

"I  am  going  home  to-morrow,"  he  said  a  little 
huskily. 

Madeline  threw  out  one  hand  and  clutched  one 
of  the  boy's  in  a  feverish  clasp. 

''No!  No!"  she  cried.  "You  mustn't  go. 
Please  don't,  Ted." 

"I've  got  to,"  stolidly. 

"Why?" 

"You  know  why." 

"You  mean — what  you  did — just  now?" 

He  nodded  miserably. 

"That  doesn't  matter.  I'm  not  angry.  I — I 
liked  it." 


102  WILD  WINGS 


"I  am  afraid  it  does  matter.  It  makes  a  mess 
of  everything,  and  it's  all  my  fault.  I  spoiled 
things.  I've  got  to  go." 

"But  you  will  come  back?"  she  pleaded. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"It  is  better  not,  Madeline.     I'm  sorry." 

She  snatched  her  hand  away  from  his,  her  eyes 
shooting  sparks  of  anger. 

"I  hate  you,  Ted  Holiday.  You  make  me  care 
and  then  you  go  away  and  leave  me.  You  are 
cruel — selfish.  I  hate  you — hate  you." 

Ted  stared  down  at  her,  helpless,  miserable, 
ashamed.  No  man  knows  what  to  do  with  a  scene, 
especially  one  which  his  own  folly  has  precipitated. 

"Willis  Hubbard  is  coming  down  to-morrow 
night  and  if  you  don't  stay  as  you  promised  I'll  go 
to  the  Swan  with.  him.  He  has  been  teasing  me  to 
go  for  ages  and  I  wouldn't,  but  I  will  now,  if  you 
leave  me.  I'll — I'll  do  anything." 

Ted  was  worried.  He  did  not  like  the  sound  of 
the  girl's  threats  though  he  wasn't  moved  from 
his  own  purpose. 

"Don't  go  to  the  Swan  with  Hubbard,  Madeline. 
You  mustn't." 

"Why  not?     You  took  me." 

"I  know  I  did,  but  that  is  different,"  he  finished 
lamely. 

"I  don't  see  anything  very  different,"  she 
retorted  hotly. 

Ted  bit  his  lip.  Remembering  his  own  recent 
aberration,  he  did  not  see  as  much  difference  as  he 
would  have  liked  to  see  himself. 

"I  suppose  you  wouldn't  have  taken  your  kind  of 
girl  to  the  Swan,"  taunted  Madeline. 

"No,  I—" 

It  was  a  fatal  admission.  Ted  hadn't  meant  to 
make  it  so  bluntly,  but  it  was  out.  The  damage 
was  done. 


TED  SEIZES  THE  DAY  103 

A  demon  of  rage  possessed  the  girl.  Beside  her- 
self with  anger  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and  delivered 
a  stinging  blow  straight  in  the  boy's  face.  Then, 
her  mood  changing,  she  fell  back  into  the  hammock 
sobbing  bitterly. 

For  a  moment  Ted  was  too  much  astonished  by 
this  fish-wife  exhibition  of  temper  even  to  be  angry 
with  himself.  Then  a  hot  wave  of  wrath  and 
shame  surged  over  him.  He  put  up  his  hand  to  his 
cheek  as  if  to  brush  away  the  indignity  of  the  blow. 
But  lie  was  honest  enough  to  realize  that  maybe 
he  had  deserved  the  punishment,  though  not  for  the 
reason  the  girl  had  dealt  it. 

Looking  down  at  her  in  her  racked  misery,  his 
resentment  vanished  and  an  odd  impersonal  kind  of 
pity  for  her  possessed  him  instead,  though  her  at- 
traction was  gone  forever.  He  could  see  the  scar 
on  her  forehead,  and  it  troubled  and  reproached 
him  vaguely,  seemed  a  symbol  of  a  deeper  wound 
he  had  dealt  her,  though  never  meaning  any  harm. 
He  bent  over  her,  gently. 

"Forgive  me,  Madeline,"  he  said.  "I  am  sorry- 
sorry  for  everything.  Goodby." 

In  a  moment  he  was  gone,  past  the  portulaca  and 
love-lies-bleeding,  past  Cousin  Emma's  unlit 
parlor  windows,  down  the  walk  between  the  tiger 
lilies  and  peonies,  out  into  the  street.  And 
Madeline,  suddenly  realizing  that  she  was  alone, 
rushed  after  him,  calling  his  name  softly  into  the 
dark.  But  only  the  echo  of  his  firm,  buoyant 
young  feet  came  back  to  her  straining  ears.  She 
fled  back  to  the  garden  and,  throwing  herself,  face 
down,  on  the  dew  drenched  grass,  surrendered  to 
a  passion  of  tearless  grief. 

Ted  astonished  his  uncle,  first  by  coming  home  a 
whole  day  earlier  than  he  had  been  expected  and 
second,  by  announcing  his  intention  of  seeing 
Robert  Caldwell  and  making  arrangements  about 


104  WILD  WINGS 


the  tutoring  that  very  day.  He  was  more  than 
usually  uncommunicative  about  his  house-party 
experiences  the  Doctor  thought  and  fancied  too 
that  just  at  first  after  his  return  the  boy  did  not 
meet  his  eyes  quite  frankly.  But  this  soon  passed 
away  and  he  was  delighted  and  it  must  be  confessed 
considerably  astounded  too  to  perceive  that  Ted 
really  meant  to  keep  his  word  about  the  studying 
and  settled  down  to  genuine  hard  work  for  perhaps 
the  first  time,  in  his  idle,  irresponsible  young  life. 
He  had  been  prepared  to  put  on  the  screws  if 
necessary.  There  had  been  no  need.  Ted  had  ap- 
plied his  own  screws  and  kept  at  his  uncongenial 
task  with  such  grim  determination  that  it  almost 
alarmed  his  family,  so  contrary  was  his  conduct 
to  his  usual  light-hearted  shedding  of  all  obliga- 
tions which  he  could,  by  hook  or  crook,  evade. 

Among  other  things  to  be  noted  with  relief  the 
doctor  counted  the  fact  that  there  were  no  more 
letters  from  Florence.  Apparently  that  flame 
which  had  blazed  up  rather  brightly  at  first  had 
died  down  as  a  good  many  others  had.  Doctor 
Holiday  was  particularly  glad  in  this  case.  He 
had  not  liked  the  idea  of  his  nephew's  running 
around  with  a  girl  who  would  be  willing  to  go  "joy- 
riding''  with  him  after  midnight,  and  still  less  had 
he  liked  the  idea  of  his  nephew's  issuing  such  in- 
vitations to  any  kind  of  girl.  Youth  was  youth  and 
he  had  never  kept  a  very  tight  rein  on  any  of  Ned's 
children,  believing  he  could  trust  them  to  run 
straight  in  the  main.  Still  there  were  things  one 
drew  the  line  at  for  a  Holiday. 


CHAPTER  X 

TONY   DANCES  INTO  A   DISCOVERY 

TONY  was  dressing  for  dinner  on  her  first  even- 
ing at  Crest  House.  Carlotta  was  perched  on  the 
arm  of  a  chair  near  by,  catching  up  on  mutual  gos- 
sip as  to  events  that  had  transpired  since  they 
parted  a  month  before  at  Northampton. 

"I  have  a  brand  new  young  man  for  you,  Tony. 
Alan  Massey — the  artist.  At  least  he  calls  himself 
an  artist,  though  he  hasn't  done  a  thing  but  phil- 
ander and  travel  two  or  three  times  around  the 
globe,  so  near  as  I  can  make  out,  since  somebody 
died  and  left  him  a  disgusting  big  fortune.  Aunt 
Lottie  hints  that  he  is  very  improper,  but  anyway 
he  is  amusing  and  different  and  a  dream  of  a  dancer. 
It  is  funny,  but  he  makes  me  think  a  little  bit  once 
in  a  while  of  somebody  we  both  know.  I  won't  tell 
you  who,  and  see  if  the  same  thing  strikes  you." 

A  little  later  Tony  met  the  "new  young  man." 
She  was  standing  with  her  friend  in  the  big  living 
room  waiting  for  the  signal  for  dinner  when  she 
felt  suddenly  conscious  of  a  new  presence.  She 
turned  quickly  and  saw  a  stranger  standing  on  the 
threshold  regarding  her  with  a  rather  disconcert- 
ingly intent  gaze.  He  was  very  tall  and  foreign- 
looking,  "different,"  as  Carlotta  had  said,  with 
thick,  waving  blue-black  hair,  a  clear,  olive  skin  and 
deep-set,  gray-green  eyes.  There  was  nothing  about 
him  that  suggested  any  resemblance  to  anyone  she 

105 


106  WILD  WINGS 


knew.  Indeed  she  had  a  feeling  that  there  was 
nobody  at  all  like  him  anywhere  in  the  world. 

The  newcomer  walked  toward  her,  their  glances 
crossing.  Tony  stood  very  still,  but  she  had  an 
unaccountable  sensation  of  going  to  meet  him,  as 
if  he  had  drawn  her  to  him,  magnet-wise,  by  his 
strange,  sweeping  look.  They  were  introduced. 
He  bowed  low  in  courtly  old  world  fashion  over  the 
girl's  hand: 

"I  am  enchanted  to  know  Miss  Holiday,"  he  said. 
His  voice  was  as  unusual  as  the  rest  of  him,  deep- 
throated,  musical,  vibrant — an  unforgettable  voice 
it  seemed  to  Tony  who  for  a  moment  seemed  to  have 
lost  her  own. 

"I  shall  sit  beside  Miss  Tony  to-night,  Carla," 
he  added.  It  was  not  a  question,  not  a  plea.  It 
was  clear  assertion. 

"Not  to-night,  Alan.  You  are  between  Aunt 
Lottie  and  Mary  Frances  Day.  You  liked  Mary 
Frances  yesterday.  You  flirted  with  her  outrage- 
ously last  night."  ' 

He  shrugged. 

"Ah,  but  that  was  last  night,  my  dear.  And  this 
is  to-night.  And  I  have  seen  your  Miss  Tony.  That 
alters  everything,  even  your  seating  arrangements. 
Change  me,  Carlotta." 

Carlotta  laughed  and  capitulated.  Alan's  high- 
handed tactics  always  amused  her. 

"Not  that  you  deserve  it,"  she  said.  "Don't  be 
too  nice  to  him,  Tony.  He  is  not  a  nice  person  at 
all." 

So  it  happened  that  Tony  found  herself  at  dinner 
between  Ted's  friend,  and  her  own,  Hal  Underwood, 
and  this  strange,  impossible,  arbitrary,  new  per- 
sonage who  had  hypnotized  her  into  unwonted 
silence  at  their  first  meeting. 

She  had  recovered  her  usual  poise  by  this  time, 
however,  and  was  quite  prepared  to  keep  Alan 


TONY  DANCES  INTO  A  DISCOVERY         107 

Massey  in  due  subjection  if  necessary.  She  did 
not  like  masterful  men.  They  always  roused  her 
own  none  too  dormant  willfulness. 

As  they  sat  down  he  bent  over  to  her. 

"You  are  glad  I  made  Carlotta  put  us  together," 
he  said,  and  this,  too,  was  no  question,  but  an  asser- 
tion. 

Tony  was  in  arms  in  a  flash. 

"On  the  contrary,  I  am  exceedingly  sorry  she 
gave  in  to  you.  You  seem  to  be  altogether  too 
accustomed  to  having  your  own  way  as  it  is."  And 
rather  pointedly  she  turned  her  pretty  shoulder  on 
her  too  presuming  neighbor  and  proceeded  to  devote 
her  undivided  attention  for  two  entire  courses  to 
Hal  Underwood. 

But,  with  the  fish,  Hal's  partner  on  the  other 
side,  a  slim  young  person  in  a  glittering  green 
sequined  gown,  suggesting  a  fish  herself,  or,  at 
politest,  a  mermaid,  challenged  his  notice  and  Tony 
returned  perforce  to  her  left-hand  companion  who 
had  not  spoken  a  single  word  since  she  had  snubbed 
him  as  Tony  was  well  aware,  though  she  had  seemed 
so  entirely  absorbed  in  her  own  conversation  with 
Hal. 

His  gray-green  eyes  smiled  imperturbably  into 
hers. 

"Am  I  pardoned?  Surely  I  have  been  punished 
enough  for  my  sins,  whatever  they  may  have  been." 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Tony.  "Are  you  always  so 
disagreeable?" 

"I  am  never  disagreeable  when  I  am  having  my 
own  way.  I  am  always  good  when  I  am  happy. 
At  this  moment  I  am  very,  very  good." 

"It  hardly  seems  possible,"  said  Tony.  "Car- 
lotta said  you  were  not  good  at  all." 

He  shrugged,  a  favorite  mannerism,  it  seemed. 

"Goodness  is  relative  and  a  very  dull  topic  in  any 
case.  Let  us  talk,  instead,  of  the  most  interesting 


108  WILD  WINGS 


subject  in  the  universe — love.     You  know,  of  course, 
I  am  madly  in  love  with  you." 

"Indeed,  no.  I  didn't  suspect  it,"  parried  Tony. 
"You  fall  in  love  easily." 

"Scarcely  easily,  in  this  case.  I  should  say  rather 
upon  tremendous  provocation.  I  suppose  you  know 
how  beautiful  you  are.'' 

"I  look  in  the  mirror  occasionally,"  admitted 
Tony  with  a  glimmer  of  mischief  in  her  eyes.  "Car- 
lotta  told  me  you  were  a  philanderer.  Forewarned 
is  forearmed,  Mr.  Massey." 

"Ah,  but  this  isn't  philandery.  It  is  truth." 
Suddenly  the  mockery  had  died  out  of  his  voice 
and  his  eyes.  "Carissima,  I  have  waited  a  very 
long  time  for  you — too  long.  Life  has  been  an 
arid  waste  without  you,  but,  Allah  be  praised,  you 
are  here  at  last.  You  are  going  to  love  me — ah,  my 
Tony — how  you  are  going  to  love  me!"  The  last 
words  were  spoken  very  low  for  the  girl's  ears  alone, 
though  more  than  one  person  at  the  table  seeing 
him  bend  over  her,  understood,  that  Alan  Massey, 
that  professional  master-lover  was  "off"  again. 

"Don't,  Mr.  Massey.  I  don't  care  for  that  kind 
of  jest." 

"Jest!  Good  God!  Tony  Holiday,  don't  you 
know  that  I  mean  it,  that  this,  is  the  reaj  tiling  at 
last  for  me — and  for  you?  Don't  fight  it,  Made- 
moiselle Beautiful.  It  will  do  no  good.  I  love 
you  and  you  are  going  to  love  me — divinely." 

"I  don't  even  like  you,"  denied  Tony  hotly. 

"What  of  that?  What  do  I  care  for  your  liking? 
That  is  for  others.  But  your  loving — that  shall 
be  mine — all  mine.  You  will  see." 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  very  much  mistaken  if  you 
do  mean  all  you  are  saying.  Please  talk  to  Miss 
Irvine  now.  You  haven't  said  a  word  to  her  since 
you  sat  down.  I  hate  rudeness." 

Again  Tony  turned  a  cold  shoulder  upon  her 


TONY  DANCES  INTO  A  DISCOVERY        109 

amazing  dinner  companion  but  she  did  not  do  it 
so  easily  or  so  calmly  this  time.  She  was  not  un- 
used to  the  strange  ways  of  men.  Not  for  nothing 
had  she  spent  so  much  of  her  life  at  army  posts 
where  love-making  is  as  familiar  as  brass  buttons. 
Sudden  gusts  of  passion  were  no  novelty  to  her,  nor 
was  it  a  new  thing  to  hear  that  a  man  thought  he 
loved  her.  But  Alan  Massey  was  different.  She 
disliked  him  intensely,  she  resented  the  arrogance 
of  his  assumptions  with  all  her  might,  but  he  inter- 
ested her  amazingly.  And,  incredible  as  it  might 
seem  and  not  to  be  admitted  out  loud,  he  was  speak- 
ing the  truth,  just  now.  He  did  love  her.  In  her 
heart  Tony  knew  that  she  had  felt  his  love  before 
he  had  ever  spoken  a  word  to  her  when  their  eyes 
had  met  as  he  stood  on  the  threshold  and  she  knew 
too  instinctively,  that  his  love — if  it  was  that — was 
not  a  thing  to  be  treated  like  the  little  summer  day 
loves  of  the  others.  It  was  big,  rather  fearful,  not 
to  be  flouted  or  played  with.  One  did  not  play  with 
a  meteor  when  it  crossed  one's  path.  One  fled  from 
it  or  stayed  and  let  it  destroy  one  if  it  would. 

She  roused  herself  to  think  of  other  people,  to 
forget  Alan  Massey  and  his  wonderful  voice  which 
had  said  such  perturbing  things.  Over  across  the 
table,  Carlotta  was  talking  vivaciously  to  a  pasty- 
visaged,  narrow-chested,  stoop-shouldered  youtl 
who  scarcely  opened  his  mouth  except  to  consume 
food,  but  whose  eyes  drank  in  every  movement  of 
Carlotta's.  One  saw  at  a  glance  he  was  another  of 
that  spoiled  little  coquette's  many  victims.  Tony 
asked  Hal  who  he  was.  He  seemed  scarcely  worth 
so  many  of  Carlotta's  sparkles,  she  thought. 

"Herb  Lathrop — father  is  the  big  tea  and  coffee 
man — all  rolled  up  in  millions.  Carlotta's  people 
are  putting  all  the  bets  on  him,  apparently,  though 
for  the  life  of  me  I  can't  see  why.  Don't  see  why 
people  with  money  are  always  expected  to  match 


110  WILD  WINGS 


up  with  somebody  with  a  wrhole  caboodle  of  the  same 
junk.  Ought  to  be  evened  up  I  think,  and  a  bit 
of  eugenics  slipped  in,  instead  of  so  much  cash,  for 
good  measure.  You  can  see  what  a  poor  fish  he  is. 
In  my  opinion  she  had  much  better  marry  your 
neighbor  up  there  on  the  Hill.  He  is  worth  a  gross 
of  Herb  Lathrops  and  she  knows  it.  Carlotta  is 
no  fool." 

"You  mean  Phil  Lambert?"  Tony  was  surprised. 

Hal  rnodded. 

"That's  the  chap.  Only  man  I  ever  knew  that 
could  keep  Carlotta  in  order." 

"But  Carlotta  hasn't  the  slightest  idea  of  marry- 
ing Phil,"  objected  Tony. 

"Maybe  not.  I  only  say  he  is  the  man  she  ought 
to  marry.  I  say,  Tony,  does  she  seem  happy  to 
you?" 

"Carlotta!  Why,  yes.  I  hadn't  thought.  She 
seems  gayer  than  usual,  if  anything."  Tony's  eyes 
sought  her  friend's  face.  Was  there  something  a 
little  forced  about  that  gaiety  of  hers?  For  the 
first  time  it  struck  her  that  there  was  a  restlessness 
in  the  lovely  violet  eyes  which  was  unfamiliar. 
Was  Carlotta  unhappy  ?  Evidently  Hal  thought  so. 
"You  have  sharp  eyes,  Hal,"  she  commented.  "I 
hadn't  noticed." 

"Oh,  I'm  one  of  the  singed  moths  you  know.  I 
know  Carlotta  pretty  well  and  I  know  she  is  fighting 
some  kind  of  a  fight — maybe  with  herself.  I  rather 
think  it  is.  Tell  Phil  Lambert  to  come  down  here 
and  marry  her  out  of  hand.  I  tell  you  Lambert's 
the  man." 

"You  think  Carlotta  loves  Phil?" 

"I  don't  think.  'Tisn't  my  business  prying  into 
a  girl's  fancies.  I'm  simply  telling  you  Phil  Lam- 
bert is  the  man  that  ought  to  marry  her,  and  if  he 
doesn't  get  on  to  the  job  almighty  quick  that  pop- 
eyed  simpleton  over  there  will  be  prancing  down  the 


TONY  DANCES  INTO  A  DISCOVERY        111 

aisle  to  Lohengrin  with  Carlotta  before  Christmas, 
and  the  jig  will  be  up.  You  tell  him  what  I  say. 
And  study  the  thing  a  bit  yourself  while  you  are 
here,  Tony.  See  if  you  can  get  to  the  bottom  of  it. 
I  hate  to  have  her  mess  things  up  for  herself  that 
way." 

Whereupon  Hal  once*  more  proceeded  to  do  his 
duty  to  the  mermaid,  leaving  Tony  to  her  other- 
partner. 

"Well,"  the  latter  murmured,  seeing  her  free. 
"I  have  done  the  heavy  polite  act,  discussed 
D'  Annunzio,  polo  and  psycho-analysis  and  finished 
all  three  subjects  neatly.  Do  I  get  my  reward?" 

"What  do  you  ask?" 

"The  first  dance  and  then  the  garden  and  the 
moon  and  you — all  to  myself." 

Tony  shook  her  head.     She  was  on  guard. 

"I  shall  want  more  than  one  dance-  and  more  than 
one  partner.  I  am  afraid  I  shan't  have  time  for 
the  moon  and  the  garden  to-night.  I  adore  dancing. 
I  never  stop  until  the  music  does." 

A  flash  of  exultancy  leaped  into  his  eyes. 

"So?  I  might  have  known  you  would  adore 
dancing.  You  shall  have  your  fill.  You  shall 
have  many  dances,  but  only  one  partner.  I 
shall  suffice.  I  am  one  of  the  best  dancers  in  the 
world." 

"And  evidently  one  of  the  vainest  men,"  coolly. 

"What  of  it?  Vanity  is  good  when  it  is  not  mis- 
placed. But  I  was  not  boasting.  I  am  one  of  the 
best  dancers  in  the  world.  Why  should  I  not  be? 
My  mother  was  Lucia  Vannini.  She  danced  before 
princes."  He  might  have  added,  "She  was  a 
prince's  mistress."  It  had  been  the  truth. 

"Oh !"  cried  Tony.  She  had  heard  of  Lucia  Van- 
nini— a  famous  Italian  beauty  and  dancer  of  three 
decades  ago.  So  Alan  Massey  was  her  son.  No 
wonder  he  was  foreign,  different,  in  ways  and  looks. 


112  WILD  WINGS 


One   could   forgive   his   extravagances   when   one 
knew. 

"Ah,  you  like  that,  my  beauty?  You  will  like  it 
even  better  when  you  have  danced  with  me.  It  is 
then  that  you  wrill  know  what  it  is  to  dance.  We 
shall  dance  and  dance  and — love.  I  shall  make  you 
mine  dancing,  Toinetta  mla" 

Tony  shrank  back  from  his  ardent  eyes  and  his 
veiled  threat.  She  was  a  passionate  devotee  of  her 
own  freedom.  She  did  not  want  to  be  made  his  or 
any  man's — certainly  not  his.  She  decided  not  to 
dance  with  him  at  all.  But  later,  when  the  violins 
began  to  play  and  Alan  Massey  came  and  stood  be- 
fore her,  uttering  no  word  but  commanding  her  to 
him  with  his  eyes  and  his  out-stretched,  nervous, 
slender,  strong,  artist  hands,  she  yielded — could 
scarcely  have  refused  if  she  had  wanted  to.  But 
she  did  not  want  to,  though  she  told  herself  it  was 
with  Lucia  Vannini's  son  rather  than  with  Alan 
Massey  that  she  desired  to  dance. 

After  that  she  thought  not  at  all,  gave  herself  up 
to  the  very  ecstasy  of  emotion.  She  had  danced 
all  her  life,  but,  even  as  he  had  predicted,  she 
learned  for  the  first  time  in  this  man's  arms  what 
dancing  really  was.  It  was  like  nothing  she  had 
ever  even  dreamed  of — pure  poetry  of  motion,  a 
curious,  rather  alarming  weaving  into  one  of  two 
vividly  alive  persons  in  a  kind  of  pagan  harmony, 
a  rhythmic  rapture  so  intense  it  almost  hurt.  It 
seemed  as  if  she  could  have  gone  on  thus  forever. 

.But  suddenly  she  perceived  that  she  and  her 
partner  had  the  floor  alone,  the  others  had  stopped 
to  watch,  though  the  musicians  still  played  on 
frenziedly,  faster  and  faster.  Flushed,  embarrassed 
at  finding  herself  thus  conspicuous,  she  drew  her- 
self away  from  Alan  Massey. 

"We  must  stop,"  she  murmured.  "They  are  all 
looking  at  us." 


TONY  DANCES  INTO  A  DISCOVERY        113 

"What  of  it?"  He  bent  over  her,  his  passionate 
eyes  a  caress.  "Did  I  not  tell  you,  carissima? 
Was  it  not  very  heaven?" 

Tony  shook  her  head. 

"I  am  afraid  there  was  nothing  heavenly  about 
it.  But  it  was  wonderful.  I  forgive  you  your 
boasting.  You  are  the  best  dancer  in  the  world. 
I  am  sure  of  it." 

"And  you  will  dance  with  me  again  and  again, 
my  yonder-girl.  You  must.  You  want  to." 

"I  want  to,"  admitted  Tony.  "But  I  am  not  go- 
ing to — at  least  not  again  to-night.  Take  me  to  a 
seat," 

He  did  so  and  she  sank  down  with  a  fluttering 
sigh  beside  Miss  Lottie  Cressy,  Carlotta's  aunt. 
The  latter  stared  at  her,  a  little  oddly  she  thought, 
and  then  looked  up  at  Alan  Massey. 

"You  don't  change,  do  you,  Alan?"  observed 
Miss  Cressy. 

"Oh  yes,  I  change  a  great  deal.  I  have  been  very 
different  ever  since  I  met  Miss  Tony."  His  eyes 
fell  on  the  girl,  made  no  secret  of  his  emotions  con- 
cerning her  and  her  beauty. 

Miss  Cressy  laughed  a  little  sardonically. 

"No  doubt.  You  were  always  different  after 
each  new  sweetheart,  I  recall.  So  were  they — 
some  of  them." 

"You  do  me  too  much  honor,"  he  retorted  suavely. 
"Shall  we  not  go  out,  Miss  Holiday?  The  garden 
is  very  beautiful  by  moonlight." 

She  bowed  assent,  and  together  they  passed  out 
of  the  room  through  the  French  window.  Miss 
Cressy  stared  after  them,  the  bitter  little  smile  still 
lingering  on  her  lips. 

"Youth  for  Alan  always,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"Ah,  well,  I  was  young,  too,  those  days  in  Paris. 
I  must  tell  Carlotta  to  warn  Tony.  It  would  be  a 
pity  for  the  child  to  be  tarnished  so  soon  by  touch- 


114  WILD  WINGS 


ing  his  kind  too  close.  She  is  so  young  and  so 
lovely." 

Alan  and  Tony  strayed  to  a  remote  corner  of  the 
spacious  gardens  and  came  to  a  pause  beside  the 
fountain  which  leaped  and  splashed  and  caught  the 
moonlight  in  its  falling  splendor.  For  a  moment 
neither  spoke.  Tony  bent  to  dip  her  fingers  in  the 
cool  water.  She  had  an  odd  feeling  of  needing 
lustration  from  something.  The  man's  eyes  were 
upon  her.  She  was  very  young,  very  lovely,  as 
Miss  Cressy  had  said.  There  was  something 
strangejy  moving  to  Alan  Massey  about  her  virginal 
freshness,  her  moonshine  beauty.  He  was  unac- 
customed to  compunction,  but  for  a  fleeting  second, 
as  he  studied  Tony  Holiday  standing  there  with 
bowed  head,  laving  her  hands  in  the  sparkling  pur- 
ity of  the  water,  he  had  an  impulse  to  go  away  and 
leave  her,  lest  he  cast  a  shadow  upon  her  by  his 
lingering  near  her. 

It  was  only  for  a  moment.  He  was  far  too  selfish 
to  follow  the  brief  urge  to  renunciation.  The  girl 
stirred  his  passion  too  deeply,  roused  his  will  to 
conquer  too  irresistibly  to  permit  him  to  forego  the 
privilege  of  the  place  and  hour. 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  he  smiled  down  at  her, 
once  more  the  master-lover. 

"I  was  right,  was  I  not,  Toiruetta  mia?  I  did 
make  you  a  little  bit  mine,  did  I  not?  Be  honest. 
Tell  me."  He  laid  a  hand  on  each  of  her  bare  white 
shoulders,  looked  deep,  deep  into  her  brown 
eyes  as  if  he  would  read  secret  things  in  their 
depths. 

Tony  drew  away  from  his  hands,  dropped  her 
gaze  once  more  to  the  rippling  white  of  the  water, 
which  was  less  disconcerting  than  Alan  Massey's 
too  ardent  green  eyes. 

"You  danced  with  me  divinely.  I  shall  also  make 
you  love  me  divinely  even  as  I  promised.  You  know 


TONY  DANCES  INTO  A  DISCOVERY         115 

it,  dear  one.  You  cannot  deny  it,"  the  magically 
beautiful  voice  which  pulled  so  oddly  at  her  heart 
strings  went  on  softly,  almost  in  a  sort  of  chant. 
"You  love  me  already,  my  white  moonshine  girl," 
he  whispered.  "Tell  me  you  do." 

"Ah  but  I  don't,"  denied  Tony.  "I— I  won't.  I 
don't  want  to  love  anybody." 

"You  cannot  help  it,  dear  heart.  Nature  made 
you  for  loving  and  being  loved.  And  it  is  I  that 
you  a"re  going  to  love.  Mine  that  you  shall  be.  Tell 
me,  did  you  ever  feel  before  as  you  felt  in  there  when 
we  were  dancing?" 

"No,"  said  Tony,  her  eyes  still  downcast. 

"I  knew  it.  You  are  mine,  belovedest.  I  knew 
it  the  moment  I  saw  you.  It  is  Kismet.  Kiss  me." 

"No."  The  girl  pulled  herself  away  from  him, 
her  face  aflame. 

"No?  Then  so."  He  drew  her  back  to  him,  and 
lifted  her  face  gently  with  his  two  hands.  He  bent 
over  her,  his  lips  close  to  hers. 

"If  you  kiss  me  I'll  never  dance  with  you  again 
as  long  as  I  live!"  she  flashed. 

He  laughed  a  little  mockingly,  but  he  lowered 
his  hands,  made  no  effort  to  gainsay  her  will. 

"What  a  horrible  threat,  you  cruel  little  moon- 
beam! But  you  wouldn't  keep  it.  You  couldn't. 
You  love  to  dance  with  me  too  well." 

"I  would,"  she  protested,  the  more  sharply  be- 
cause she  suspected  he  was  right,  that  she  would 
dance  with  him  again,  no  matter  what  he  did.  "Any 
way  I  shall  not  dance  with  you  again  to-night. 
And  I  shall  not  stay  out  here  with  you  any  longer." 
She  turned  to  flee,  but  he  put  .out  his  hand  and  held 
her  back. 

"Not  so  fast,  my  Tony.  They  have  eyes,  and  ears 
in  there.  If  you  run  away  from  me  and  go  back 
with  those  glorious  fires  lit  in  your  cheeks  and  in 
your  eyes  they  will  believe  I  did  kiss  you*." 


116  WILD  WINGS 


"Oh!"  gasped  Tony,  indignant  but  lingering, 
recognizing  the  probable  truth  of  his  prediction. 

"We  shall  go  together  after  a  minute  with  sedate- 
ness,  as  if  we  had  been  studying  the  stars.  I  am 
wise,  my  Tony.  Trust  me." 

"Very  well,"  assented  Tony.  "How  many  stars 
are  there  in  the  Pleiades,  anyway?"  she  asked  with 
sudden  imps  of  mirth  in  her  eyes. 

Again  she  felt  on  safe  ground,  sure  that  she  had 
conquered  and  put  a  too  presuming  male  in  his 
place.  She  had  no  idea  that  the  laurels  had  been 
chiefly  not  hers  at  all  but  Alan  Massey's,  who  was 
quite  as  wise  as  he  boasted. 

But  she  kept  her  wortl  and  danced  no  more  with 
Alan  Massey  that  night.  She  did  not  dare.  She 
hated  Alan  Massey,  disapproved  of  him  heartily 
and  knew  it  would  be  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world 
to  fall  in  love  with  him,  especially  if  she  let  herself 
dance  often  with  him  as  they  had  danced  to-night. 

And  so,  her  very  first  night  a.t  Crest  House, 
Antoinette  Holiday  discovered  that  there  was  such 
a  thing  as  love  after  all,  and  that  it  had  to  be  reck- 
oned with  whether  you  desired  or"  not  to  welcome  it 
at  your  door. 


THINGS   THAT   WERE   NOT   ALL   ON   THE   CARD 

AFTER  that  first  night  in  the  garden  Alan  Massey 
did  not  try  to  make  open  love  to  Tony  again,  but 
his  eyes,  following  her  wherever  she  moved,  made 
no  secret  of  his  adoration.  He  was  nearly  always 
by  her  side,  driving  off  other  devotees  when  he 
chose  with  a  cool  high-handedness  which  sometimes 
amused,  sometimes  infuriated  Tony.  She  found 
the  man  a  baffling  and  fascinating  combination  of 
qualities,  all  petty  selfishness  and  colossal  egotisms 
one  minute,  abounding  in  endless  charms  and  graces 
and  small  endearing  chivalries  the  next;  outrage- 
ously outspoken  at  times,  at  other  times,  reticent 
to  the  point  of  secretiveness ;  now  reaching  the  most 
extravagant  pitch  of  high  spirits,  and  then,  almost 
without  warning,  submerged  in  moods  of  Stygian 
gloom  from  which  nothing  could  rouse  him. 

Tony  came  to  know  something  of  his  romantic 
and  rather  mottled  career  from  Carlotta  and  others, 
even  from  Alan  himself.  She  knew  perfectly  well 
he  was  not  the  kind  of  man  Larry  or  her  uncle 
would  approve  or  tolerate.  She  disapproved  of  him 
rather  heartily  herself  in  many  ways.  At  times  she 
disliked  him  passionately,  made  up  her  mind  she 
would  have  no  more  to  do  with  him.  At  other 
times  she  was  all  but  in  love  with  him,  and  sus- 
pected she  would  have  found  the  world  an  intoler- 
ably dull  place  with  Alan  Massey  suddenly  removed 

from  it.     When  they  danced  together  she  was  dan- 

117 


118  WILD  WINGS 


gerously  near  being  what  he  had  claimed  she  was  or 
would  be — all  his.  She  knew  this,  was  afraid  of  it, 
yet  she  kept  on  dancing  with  him  night  after  night. 
It  seemed  as  if  she  had  to,  as  if  she  would  have 
danced  with  him  even  if  she  knew  the  next  moment 
would  send  them  both  hurtling  through  space,  like 
Lucifer,  down  to  damnation. 

It  was  not  until  Dick  Carson  came  down  for  a 
week  end,  some  time  later,  that  Tony  discovered 
the  resemblance  in  Alan  to  some  one  she  knew  of 
which  Carlotta  had  spoken.  Incredibly  and  inex- 
plicably Dick  and  Alan  possessed  a  shadowy  sort 
of  similarity.  In  most  respects  they  were  as  differ- 
ent in  appearance  as  they  were  in  personality. 
Dick's  hair  was  brown  and  straight ;  Alan's,  black 
and  wavy.  Dick's  eyes  were  steady  gray-blue; 
Alan's,  shifty  gray-green.  Yet  the  resemblance 
was  there,  elusive,  though  it  was.  Perhaps  it  lay 
in  the  curve  of  the  sensitive  nostrils,  perhaps  in  the 
firm  contour  of  chin,  perhaps  in  the  arch  of  the 
brow.  Perhaps  it  was  nothing  so  tangible,  just  a 
fleeting  trick  of  expression.  Tony  did  not  know, 
but  she  caught  the  thing  just  as  Carlotta  had  and 
it  puzzled  and  interested  her. 

She  spoke  of  it  to  Alan  the  next  morning  after 
Dick's  arrival,  as  they  idled  together,  stretched  out 
on  the  sand,  waiting  for  the  others  to  come  out  of 
the  surf. 

To  her  surprise  he  was  instantly  highly  annoyed 
and  resentful. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Tony,  don't  get  the  resem- 
blance mania.  It's  a  disgusting  habit.  I  knew  a 
woman  once  who  was  always  chasing  likenesses  in 
people  and  prattling  about  them — got  her  in  trouble 
once  and  served  her  right.  She  told  a  young  lieu- 
tenant that  he  looked  extraordinarily  like  a  certain 
famous  general  of  her  acquaintance.  It  proved 
later  that  the  young  man  had  been  born  at  the  post 


NOT  ALL  ON  THE  CARD  119 

where  the  general  was  stationed  while  the  presump- 
tive father  was  absent  on  a  year's  cruise.  It  had 
been  quite  a  prominent  scandal  at  the  time." 

"That  isn't  a  nice  story,  Alan.  Morever  it  is  en- 
tirely irrelevant.  But  you  and  Dick  do  look  alike. 
I  am  not  the  only  or  the  first  person  who  saw  it, 
either." 

Alan  started  and  frowned. 

"Good  Lord!     Who  else?"  he  demanded. 

"Carlotta!" 

"The  devil  she  did!"  Alan's  eyes-  were  vindic- 
tive. Then  he  laughed.  "Commend  me  to  a  girl's 
imagination !  This  Dick  chap  seems  to  be  head  over 
heels  in  love  with  you,"  he  added. 

"What  nonsense!"  denied  Tony  crisply,  fashion- 
ing a  minature  sand  mountain  as  she  spoke. 

"No  nonsense  at  all,  my  dear.  Perfectly  obvious 
fact.  Don't  you  suppose  I  know  how  a  man  looks 
when  he  is  in  love?  I  ought  to.  I've  been  in  love 
often  enough." 

Tony  demolished  her  mountain  with  a  wrathful 
sweep  of  her  hand. 

"And  registered  all  the  appropriate  emotions  be 
fore  the  mirror,  I  suppose.  You  make  me  sick, 
Alan.  You  are  all  pose.  I  don't  believe  there  is  a 
single  sincere  thing  about  you." 

"Oh,  yes,  there  is — are — two." 

"What  are  they?" 

"One  is  my  sincere  devotion  to  yourself,  my  beau- 
tiful. The  other — an  equally  sincere  devotion  to — 
myself" 

"I  grant  you  the  second,  at  least." 

"Don't  pose,  yourself,  my  darling.  You  know 
I  love  you.  You  pretend  you  don't  believe  it,  but 
you  do.  And  way  down  deep  in  your  heart  you 
love  my  love.  It  makes  your  heart  beat  fast  just 
to  think  of  it.  See !  Did  I  not  tell  you?"  He  had 
suddenly  put  out  his  hand  and  laid  it  over  her  heart. 


120  WILD  WINGS 


"Poor  little  wild  bird!     How  its  wings  flutter!" 

Tony  got  up  swiftly  from  the  sand,  her  face  scar- 
let. She  was  indignant,  self-conscious,  betrayed. 
For  her  heart  had  been  beating  at  a  fearful  clip  and 
she  knew  it. 

"How  dare  you  touch  me  like  that,  Alan  Massey? 
I  detest  you.  I  don't  see  why  I  ever  listen  to  you 
at  all,  or  let  you  come  near  me." 

Alan  Massey,  still  lounging  at  her  feet,  looked  up 
at  her  as  she  stood  above  him,  slim,  supple,  softly 
rounded,  adorably  pretty  and  feminine  in  her  black 
satin  bathing  suit  and  vivid,  emerald  hued  cap. 

"I  know  why,"  he  said  and  rose,  too,  slowly,  with 
the  indolent  grace  of  a  leopard.  "So  do  you,  my 
Tony,"  he  added.  "We  both  know.  Will  you  dance 
with  me  a  great  deal  to-night?" 

"No." 

"How  many  times?" 

"Not  at  all." 

"Indeed!  And  does  his  Dick  Highmightiness 
object  to  your  dancing  with  me?" 

"Dick!  Of  course  not.  He  hasn't  anything  to 
do  with  it.  I  am  not  going  to  dance  with  you  be- 
cause you  are  behaving  abominably  to-day,  and  you 
did  yesterday  and  the  day  before  that.  I  think  you 
are  nearly  always  abominable,  in  fact." 

"Still,  I  am  one  of  the  best  dancers  in  the  world. 
It  is  a  temptation,  is  it  not,  my  own?" 

He  smiled  his  slow,  tantalizing  smile  and,  in  spite 
of  herself,  Tony  smiled  back. 

"It  is,"  she  admitted.  "You  are  a  heavenly 
dancer,  Alan.  There  is  no  denying  it.  If  you  were 
Mephisto  himself  I  think  I  would  dance  with  you— 
occasionally." 

"And  to-night?" 

"Once,"  relented  Tony.  "There  come  the  others 
at  last."  And  she  ran  off  down  the  yellow  sands 
like  a  modern  Atalanta. 


NOT  ALL  ON  THE  CARD  121 

"My,  but  Tony  is  pretty  to-night!"  murmured 
Carlotta  to  Alan,  who  chanced  to  be  standing  near 
her,  as  her  friend  fluttered  by  with  Dick.  "She 
looks  like  a  regular  flame  in  that  scarlet  chiffon.  It 
is  awfully  daring,  but  she  is  wonderful  in  it." 

"She  is  always  wonderful,"  muttered  Alan  mood- 
ily, watching  the  slender,  graceful  figure  whirl  and 
trip  and  flash  down  the  floor  like  a  gay  poppy  petal 
caught  in  the  wind. 

Carlotta  turned.  Something  in  Alan's  tone  ar- 
rested her  attention. 

"Alan,  I  believe,  it  is  real  with  you  at  last,"  she 
said.  Up  to  that  moment  she  had  considered  his 
affair  with  Tony  as  merely  another  of  his  many  ad- 
ventures in  romance,  albeit  possibly  a  slightly  more 
extravagant  one  than  usual. 

"Of  course  it  is  real — real  as  Hell,"  he  retorted. 
"I'm  mad  over  her,  Carla.  I  am  going  to  marry  her 
if  I  have  to  kill  every  man  in  the  path  to  get  to  her," 
savagely. 

"I  am  sorry,  Alan.  You  must  see  Tony  is  not  for 
the  like  of  you.  You  can't  get  to  her.  I  wish  you 
wouldn't  try." 

Dick  and  Tony  passed  close  to  them  again.  Tony 
was  smiling  up  at  her  partner  and  he  was  looking 
down  at  her  with  a  gaze  that  betrayed  his  caring. 
Neither  saw  Alan  and  Carlotta.  The  savage  light 
gleamed  brighter  in  Alan's  green  eyes. 

"Carlotta,  is  there  anything  between  them?"  he 
demanded  fiercely. 

"Nothing  definite.  He  adores  her,  of  course,  and 
she  is  very  fond  of  him.  v  She  feels  as  if  he  sort  of 
belonged  to  her,  I  think.  You  know  the  story?" 

"Tell  me." 

Briefly  Carlotta  outlined  the  tale  of  how  Dick  had 
taken  refuge  in  the  Holiday  barn  when  he  had  run 
away  from  the  circus,  and  how  Tony  had  found  him, 
sick  and  exhausted  from  fatigue,  hunger  and  abuse ; 


122  WILD  WINGS 


how  the  Holidays  had  taken  him  in  and  set  him  on 
his  feet,  and  Tony  had  given  him  her  own  middle 
name  of  Carson  since  he  had  none  of  his  own. 

Alan  listened  intently. 

"Did  he  ever  get  any  clue  as  to  his  identity?"  he 
asked  as  Carlotta  paused. 

"Never." 

"Has  he  asked  Tony  to  marry  him?" 

"I  don't  think  so.  I  doubt  if  he  ever  does,  so  long 
as  he  doesn't  know  who  he  is.  He  is  very  proud  and 
sensitive,  and  has  an  almost  superstitious  venera- 
tion for  the  Holiday  tradition.  Being  a  Holiday 
in  New  England  is  a  little  like  being  of  royal 
blood,  you  know.  I  don't  believe  you  will  ever  have 
to  make  a  corpse  of  poor  Dick,  Alan." 

"I  don't  mind  making  corpses.  I  rather  think  I 
should  enjoy  making  one  of  him.  I  detest  the  long, 
lean  animal." 

Had  Alan  known  it,  Dick  had  taken  quite  as 
thorough  a  dislike  to  his  magnificent  self.  At  that 
very  moment  indeed,  as  he  and  Tony  strolled  in  the 
garden,  Dick  had  remarked  that  he  wished  Tony 
wouldn't  dance  with  "that  Massey." 

"And  why  not?"  she  demanded,  always  quick  to 
resent  dictatorial  airs. 

"Because  he  makes  you — well — conspicuous.  He 
hasn't  any  business  to  dance  with  you  the  way  he 
does.  You  aren't  a  professional  but  he  makes  you 
look  like  one." 

"Thanks.  A  left-hand  compliment  but  still  a 
compliment !" 

"It  wasn't  meant  for  one,"  said  Dick  soberly. 
"I  hate  it.  Of  course  you  dance  wonderfully  your- 
self. It  isn't  just  dancing  with  you.  It  is  poetry, 
stuff  of  dreams  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  I  can  see  that, 
and  I  know  it  must  be  a  temptation  to  have  a  chance 
at,  a  partner  like  that.  Lord!  Tony!  No  man  in 
every  day  life  has  a  right  to  dance  the  way  he  can. 


NOT  ALL  ON  THE  CARD  123 

He  out-classes  Castle.  I  hate  that  kind  of  a 
man — half  woman." 

"There  isn't  anything  of  a  woman  about  Alan, 
Dick.  He  is  the  most  virulently  male  man  I  ever 
knew." 

Dick  fell  silent  at  that.    Presently  he  began  again. 

"Tony,  please  don't  be  offended  at  what  I  am 
going  to  say.  I  know  it  is  none  of  my  business,  but 
I  wish  you  wouldn't  keep  on  with  this  affair  with 
Massey." 

"Why  not?"  There  was  an  aggressive  sparkle  in 
Tony's  eyes. 

"People  are  talking.  I  heard  them  last  night 
when  you  were  dancing  with  him.  It  hurts.  Alan 
Massey  isn't  the  kind  of  a  man  for  a  girl  like  you  to 
flirt  with." 

"Stuff  and  nonsense,  Dicky!  Any  kind  of  a  man 
is  the  kind  for  a  girl  to  flirt  with,  if  she  keeps  her 
head." 

"But  Tony,  honestly,  this  Massey  hasn't  a  good 
reputation." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Newspaper  men  know  a  great  deal.  They 
have  to.  Besides,  Alan  Massey  is  a  celebrity.  He 
is  written  up  in  our  flies." 

"What  does  that  mean?" 

"It  means  that  if  he  should  die  to-morrow  all  we 
would  have  to  do  would  be  to  put  in  the  last  flip. 
The  biographical  data  is  all  on  the  card  ready  to 
shoot." 

"Dear  me.  That's  rather  gruesome,  isn't  it?" 
shivered  Tony.  "I'm  glad  I'm  not  a  celebrity.  I'd 
hate  to  be  stuck  down  on  your  old  flies.  Will  I  get 
on  Alan's  card  if  I  keep  on  flirting  with  him?" 

"Good  Lord !     I  should  hope  not." 

"I  suppose  I  wouldn't  be  in  very  good  company. 
I  don't  mean  Alan.  I  mean — his  ladies." 

"Tony !     Then  you  know  ?" 


124  WILD  WINGS 


"About  Alan's  ladies?  Oh,  yes.  He  told  me 
himself." 

Dick  looked  blank.  What  was  a  man  to  do  in  a 
case  like  this,  finding  his  big  bugaboo  no  bugaboo 
at  all? 

"I  know  a  whole  lot  about  Alan  Massey,  maybe 
more  than  is  on  your  old  card.  I  know  his  mother 
was  Lucia  Vannini,  so  beautiful  and  so  gifted  that 
she  danced  in  every  court  in  Europe  and  was  loved 
by  a  prince.  I  know  how  Cyril  Massey,  an  Ameri- 
can artist,  painted  her  portrait  and  loved  her  and 
married  her.  I  know  how  she  worshiped  him  and 
was  absolutely  faithful  to  him  to  the  day  he  .died, 
when  the  very  light  of  life  went  out  for  her." 

"She  managed  to  live  rather  cheerfully  afterward, 
even  without  light,  if  all  the  stories  about  her  are 
true,"  observed  Dick,  with,  for  him,  unusual  cyni- 
cism. 

"You  don't  understand.     She  had  to  live." 

"There  are  other  ways  of  living  than  those  she 
chose." 

"Not  for  her.  She  knew  only  two  things — love 
and  dancing.  She  was  thrown  from  a  horse  the 
next  year  after  her  husband  died.  Dancing  was 
over  for  her.  There  was  only — her  beauty  left. 
Her  husband's  people  wouldn't  have  anything  to 
do  with  her  because  she  had  been  a  dancer  and  be- 
cause of  the  prince.  Old  John  Massey,  Cyril's 
uncle,  turned  her 'and  her  baby  from  his  door,  and 
his  cousin  John  and  his  wife  refused  even  to  see 
her.  She  said  she  would  make  them  hear  of  her 
before  she  died.  She  did." 

"They  heard  all  right.  She,  and  her  son  too, 
must  have  been  a  thorn  in  the  flesh  of  the  Masseys. 
They  were  all  rigid  Puritans  I  understand,  espe- 
cially old  John." 

"Serve  him  right,"  sniffed  Tony.  "They  were 
rolling  in  wealth.  They  might  have  helped  her 


NOT  ALL  ON  THE  CARD  V125 

kept  her  from  the  other  thing  they  condemned  so. 
She  wanted  money  only  for  Alan,  especially  after  he 
began  to  show  that  he  had  more  than  his  father's 
gifts.  She  earned  it  in  the  only  way  she  knew.  I 
don't  blame  her." 

"Tony !" 

"I  can't  help  it  if  I  am  shocking  you,  Dick.  I 
can  understand  why  she  did  it.  She  didn't  care 
anything  about  the  lovers.  She  never  cared  for  any- 
one after  Cyril  died.  She  gave  herself  for  Alan. 
Can'f  you  see  that  there  was  something  rather  fine 
about  it?  I  can." 

Dick  grunted.  He  remembered  hearing  some- 
thing about  a  woman  whose  sins  wrere  forgiven  her 
because  she  loved  much.  But  he  couldn't  reconcile 
himself  to  hearing  such  stories  from  Tony  Holiday's 
lips.  They  were  remote  from  the  clean,  sweet, 
wholesome  atmosphere  in  which  she  belonged. 

"Anyway,  Alan  was  a  wonderful  success.  He 
studied  in  Paris  and  he  had  pictures  on  exhibition 
in  salons  Qver  there  before  he  was  twenty.  He  was 
feted  and  courted  and  flattered  and — loved,  until 
he  thought  the  world  was  his  and  everything  in  it — 
including  the  ladies."  Tony  made  a  little  face  at 
this.  She  did  not  care  very-  much  for  that  part  of 
Alan's  story,  herself.  "His  mother  was  afraid  he 
was  going  to  have  his  head  completely  turned  and 
would  lose  all  she  had  gained  so  hard  for  him,  so 
she  made  him  come  back  to  America  and  settle 
down.  He  did.  He  made  a  great  name  for  him- 
self before  he  was  twenty-five  as  a  portrait  painter 
and  he  and  his  mother  lived  so  happily  together. 
She  didn't  need  any  more  lovers  then.  Alan  was 
all  she  needed.  And  then  she  died,  and  he  went 
nearly  crazy  with  grief,  went  all  to  pieces,  every 
way.  I  suppose  that  part  of  his  career  is  what 
makes  you  say  he  isn't  fit  for  me  to  flirt  with." 

Dick  nodded  miserably. 


126  WILD  WINGS 


"It  isn't  very  pleasant  for  me  to  think  of,  either," 
admitted  Tony.  "I  don't  like  it  any  better  than 
you  do.  But  he  isn't  like  that  any  more.  When 
old  John  Massey  died  without  leaving  any  will  Alan 
got  all  the  money,  because  his  cousin  John  and  his 
stuck-up  wife  had  died,  too,  and  there  was  nobody 
else.  Alan  pulled  up  stakes  and  traveled  all  over 
the  world,  was  gone  two  years  and,  when  he  came 
back,  he  wasn't  dissipated  any  more.  I  don't  say 
he  is  a  saint  now.  He  isn't,  I  know.  But  he  got 
absolutely  out  of  the  pit  he  was  in  after  his  m'other's 
death." 

"Lucky  for  him  they  never  found  the  baby  John 
Massey,  who  was  stolen,"  Dick  remarked.  "He 
would  have  been  the  heir  if  he  could  have  appeared 
to  claim  the  money  instead  of  Alan  Massey,  who  was 
only  a  grand  nephew." 

Tony  stared. 

"There  wasn't  any  baby,"  she  exclaimed. 

^Oh  yes,  there  was.  John  Massey,  Junior,  had 
a  son  John  who  was  kidnapped  when  he  was  asleep 
in  the  park  and  deserted  by  his  nurse  who  had  gone 
to  flirt  with  a  policeman.  There  was  a  great  fuss 
made  about  it  at  the  time.  The  Masseys  offered 
fabulous  sums  of  money  for  the  return  of  the  child, 
but  he  never  turned  up.  I  had  to  dig  up  the  story 
a  few  years  ago  when  old  John  died,  which  is  why  I 
know  so  much  about  it." 

"I  don't  believe  Alan  knew  about  the  baby.  He 
didn't  tell  me  anything  about  it." 

"I'll  wager  he  knew,  all  right.  It  would  be 
mighty  unpleasant  for  him  if  the  other  Massey 
turned  up  now.'' 

"Dick,  I  believe  you  would  be  glad  if  Alan  lost 
the  money,"  reproached  Tony. 

"Why  no,  Tony.  It's  nothing  to  me,  but  I've 
always  been  sorry  for  that  other  Massey  kid,  though 
he  doesn't  know  what  he  missed  and  is  probably  a 


NOT  ALL  ON  THE  CARD  127 

jail-bird  or  a  janitor  by  this  time,  not  knowing  he  is 
heir  to  one  of  the  biggest  properties  in  America." 

"Sorry  to  disturb  your  theories,  Mr.— er  Carson," 
remarked  Alan  Massey,  suddenly  appearing  on  the 
scene.  "My  cousin  John  happens  to  be  neither  a 
jail-bird  nor  a  janitor,  but  merely  comfortably  dead. 
Lucky  John!"' 

"But  Dick  said  he  wasn't  dead — at  least  that  no- 
body knew  whether  he  was  or  not,''  objected  Tony. 

"Unfortunately  your  friend  is  in  error.  John 
Massey  is  entirely  dead,  I  assure  you.  And  now, 
if  he  is  quite  through  with  me  and  my  affairs,  per- 
haps Mr.  Carson  will  excuse  you.  Come,  dear." 

Alan  laid  a  hand  on  Tony's  arm  with  a  proprie- 
torial air  which  made  Dick  writhe  far  more  than 
his  insulting  manner  to  himself  had  done.  Tony 
looked  quickly  from  one  to  the  other.  She  hated 
the  way  Alan  was  behaving,  but  she  did  not  want 
to  precipitate  a  scene  and  yielded,  leaving  Dick, 
with  a  deprecatory  glance,  to  go  with  Alan. 

"I  don't  like  your  manner,"  she  told  the  latter. 
"You  were  abominably  rude  just  now." 

"Forgive  me,  sweetheart.  I  apologize.  That 
young  man  of  yours  sets  my  teeth  on  edge.  I  can't 
abide  a  predestined  parson.  I'll  wager  anything 
he  has  been  preaching  at  you."  He  smiled  ironic- 
ally as  he  saw  the  girl  flush.  "So  he  did  preach, — 
and  against  me,  I  suppose." 

"He  did,  and  quite  right,  too.  You  are  not  at  all 
a  proper  person  for  me  to  flirt  with,  just  as  he  said. 
Even  Miss  Lottie  told  me  that  and  when  Miss  Lottie 
objects  to  a  man  it  means — 

"That  she  has  failed  to  hold  him  herself,"  said 
Alan  cynically.  "Stop,  Tony.  I  want  to  say  some- 
thing to  you  before  we  go  in.  I  am  not  a  proper 
person.  I  told  you  that  myself.  There  have  been 
other  women  in  my  life — a  good  many  of  them.  I 
told  you  that,  too.  But  that  has  absolutely  nothing 


128  WILD  WINGS 


to  do  with  you  and  me.  I  love  you.  You  are  the 
only  woman  I  ever  have  loved  in  the  big  sense,  at 
least  the  only  one  I  have  ever  wanted  to  marry.  I 
am  like  my  mother.  She  had  many  lesser  loves. 
She  had  only  one  great  one.  She  married  him. 
And  I  shall  marry  you." 

"Alan,  don't.  It  is  foolish — worse  than  foolish 
to  talk  like  that.  My  people  would  never  let  me 
marry  you,  even  if  I  wanted  to.  Dick  was  speak- 
ing for  them  just  now  when  he  warned  me  against 
you." 

"He  was  speaking  for  himself.     Damn  him!" 
"Alan !" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Tony.  I'm  a  brute  to-night. 
I  am  sorry.  I  won't  trouble  you  any  more.  I  won't 
even  keep  you  to  your  promise  to  dance  once  with 
me  if  you  wish  to  be  let  off." 

The  music  floated  out  to  them,  called  insistently 
to  Tony's  rhythm-mad  feet  and  warm  young  blood. 
"Ah,  but  I  do  want  to  dance  with  you,"  she 
sighed.     "I  don't  want  to  be  let  off.     Come." 

He  bent  over  her,  a  flash  of  triumph  in  his  eyes. 
"My  own !"  he  exulted.     "You  are  my  own.    Kiss 
me,  belovedest." 

But  Tony  pulled  away  from  him  and  he  followed 
her.  A  moment  later  the  scarlet  flame  was  in  his 
arms  whirling  down  the  hall  to  the  music  of  the 
violins,  and  Dick,  standing  apart  by  the  window 
watching,  tasted  the  dregs  of  the  bitterest  brew  life 
had  yet  offered  him.  Better,  far  better  than  Tony 
Holiday  he  knew  where  the  scarlet  flame  was  blow- 
ing. 

His  dance  with  Tony  over,  Alan  retired  to  the 
library  where  he  used  the  telephone  to  transmit  a 
wire  to  Boston,  a  message  addressed  to  one  James 
Roberts,  a  retired  circus  performer. 


CHAPTER  XII 

AND   THERE   IS   A   FLAME 

WHEN  Alan  Massey  strayed  into  the  breakfast 
room,  one  of  the  latest  arrivals  at  that  very  informal 
meal,  he  found  a  telegram  awaiting  him.  It  was 
rather  an  odd  message  and  ran  thus,  without  capi- 
talization or  punctuation.  "Towa"  named  correct 
what  is  up  let  sleeping  dogs  lie  sick."  Alan 
frowned  as  he  thrust  the  yellow  envelope  into  his 
pocket. 

"Does  the  fool  mean  he  is  sick,  I  wonder,"  he 
cogitated.  "Lord,  I  wish  I  could  let  well  enough 
alone.  But  this  sword  of  Damocles  business  is  be- 
ginning to  get  on  my  nerves.  I  have  half  a  mind 
to  take  a  run  into  town  this  afternoon  and  see  the 
old  reprobate.  I'll  bet  he  doesn't  know  as  much 
as  he  claims  to,  but  I'd  like  to  be  sure  before  he 
dies." 

Just  then  Tony  Holiday  entered,  clad  in  a  rose 
hued  linen  and  looking  like  a  new  blown  rose  her- 
self. 

"You  are  the  latest  ever,"  greeted  Carlotta. 

"On  the  contrary  I  have  been  up  since  the  crack 
of  dawn,"  denied  Tony,  slipping  into  a  seat  beside 
her  friend. 

Carlotta  opened  her  eyes  wide.  Then  she  under- 
stood. 

"You  got  up  to  see  Dick  off,"  she  announced. 

"I  did.  Please  give  me  some  strawberries,  Hal, 
if  you  don't  mean  to  eat  the  whole  pyramid  your- 

129 


130  WILD  WINGS 


self.  I  not  only  got  up,  but  I  went  to  the  station ; 
not  only  went  to  the  station,  but  I  walked  the  whole 
mile  and  a  half.  Can  anybody  beat  that  for  a  morn- 
ing record?''  Tony  challenged  as  she  deluged  her 
berries  with  cream. 

Alan  Massey  uttered  a  kind  of  a  snarling  sound 
such  as  a  lion  disturbed  from  a  nap  might  have 
emitted.  He  had  thought  he  was  through  with  Car- 
son when  the  latter  had  made  his  farewells  the  night 
before,  saying  goodnight  to  Tony  before  them  all. 
But  Tony  had  gotten  up  at  some  ridiculously  early 
hour  to  escort  him  to  the  station,  and  did  not  mind 
everybody's  knowing  it.  He  subsided  into  a  dense 
mood  of  gloom.  Jhe  morning  had  begun  badly. 

Later  he  discovered  Tony  in  the  rose  garden  with 
a  big  basket  on  her  arm  and  a  charming  drooping 
sun  hat  shading  her  even  more  charming  face.  She 
waved  him  away  as  he  approached. 

"Go  away,"  she  ordered.     "I'm  busy." 

"You  mean  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  be 
disagreeable  to  me,"  he  retorted,  lighting  a  ciga- 
rette and  looking  as  if  he  meant  to  fight  it  out 
along  that  line  if  it  took  all  summer. 

Tony  snipped  off  a  rose  with  her  big  shears  and 
dropped  it  into  her  basket.  It  rather  looked  as  if 
she  were  meaning  to  snip  off  Alan  Massey  figura- 
tively in  much  the  same  ruthless  manner. 

"Put  it  that  way,  if  you  like.  Only  stay  away. 
I  mean  it." 

"Why?"  he  persisted. 

Thus  pressed  she  turned  and  faced  him. 

"It  is  a  lovely  morning — all  blue  and  gold  and 
clean-washed  after  last  night's  storm — a  good  morn- 
ing. I'm  feeling  good,  too.  The  clean  morning  has 
got  inside  of  me.  And  when  you  come  near  me  I 
feel  a  pricking  in  my  thumbs.  You  don't  fit  into 
my  present  mood.  Please  go,  Alan.  I  am  per- 
fectly serious.  I  don't  want  to  talk  to  you." 


AND  THERE  IS  A  FLAME  131 

"What  have  I  done?  I  am  no  different  from 
what  I  was  yesterday." 

"I  know.  It  isn't  anything  you  have  done.  It 
isn't  you  at  all.  It  is  I  who  am  different — or  want 
to  be."  Tony  spoke  earnestly.  She  was  perfectly 
sincere.  She  did  want  to  be  different.  She  had 
not  slept  well  the  night  before.  She  had  thought 
a  great  deal  about  Holiday  Hill  and  Uncle  Phil 
and  her  brothers  and — well,  yes — about  Dick  Car- 
son. "They  all  armed  her  against  Alan  Massey. 

Alan  threw  away  his  cigarette  with  an  angry 
gesture. 

"You  can't  play  fast  and  loose  with  me,  Tony 
Holiday.  You  have  been  leading  me  on,  playing 
the  devil  with  me  for  days.  You  know  you  have. 
Now  you  are  scared,  and  want  to  get  back  to  shal- 
low water.  It  is  too  late.  You  are  in  deep  seas 
and  you've  got  to  stay  there — with  me." 

"I  haven't  got  to  do  anything,  Alan.  You  are 
claiming  more  than  you  have  any  right  to  claim." 

But  he  came  nearer,  towered  above  her,  almost 
menacingly. 

"Because  that  nameless  fool  of  a  reporter  with 
his  sanctimonious  airs  and  impeccable  morals,  has 
put  you  against  me  you  want  to  sack  me.  You 
can't  do  it.  Last  night  you  were  ready  to  go  any 
lengths  with  me.  You  know  it.  Do  you  think  I 
am  going  to  be  balked  by  a  miserable  circus  brat — 
a  mere  nobody?  Not  so  long  as  I  am  Alan  Massey. 
Count  on  that." 

Tony's  dark  eyes  were  ablaze  with  anger. 

"Stop  there,  Alan.  You  are  saying  things  that 
are  not  true.  And  I  forbid  you  ever  to  speak  of 
Dick  like  that  again  to  me." 

"Indeed!  And  how  are  you  going  to  prevent 
my  saying  what  I  please  about  your  precious  pro- 
tege?" sneered  Alan. 

"I  shall  tell  Carlotta  I  won't  stay  under  the  same 


132  WILD  WINGS 


roof  with  anybody  who  insults  my  friends.  You 
won't  have  to  restrain  yourself  long  in  any  case.  I 
am  leaving  Saturday — perhaps  sooner." 

"Tony!"  The  sneer  died  away  from  Alan's  face, 
which  had  suddenly  grown  white.  "You  mustn't 
go.  I  can't  live  without  you,  my  darling.  If  you 
knew  how  I  worshiped  you,  how  I  cannot  sleep  of 
nights  for  wanting  you  you  wouldn't  talk  of  going 
away  from  me.  I  was  brutal  just  now.  I  admit  it. 
It  is  because  I  love  you  so.  The  thought  of  your 
turning  from  me,  deserting  me,  maddened  me.  I 
am  not  responsible  for  what  I  said.  You  must  for- 
give me.  But,  oh  my  belovedest,  you  are  mine! 
Don't  try  to  deny  it.  We  have  belonged  to  each 
•other  for  always.  You  know  it.  You  feel  it.  I 
have  seen  the  knowledge  in  your  eyes,  felt  it  flutter 
in  your  heart.  Will  you  marry  me,  Tony  Holiday? 
You  shall  be  loved  as  no  woman  was  ever  loved. 
You  shall  be  my  queen.  I  will  be  true  to  you  for- 
ever and  ever,  your  slave,  your  mate.  Tony,  Tony, 
say  yes.  You  must !" 

But  Tony  drew  back  from  him,  frightened,  re- 
pulsed, shocked,  by  the  storm  of  his  passion  which 
shook  him  as  mighty  trees  are  shaken  by  tempests. 
She  shrank  from  the  hungry  fires  in  his  eyes,  from 
the  abandon  and  fierceness  of  his  wooing.  It  was 
an  alien,  disturbing,  dreadful  thing  to  her. 

"Don't,"  she  implored.  "You  mustn't  love  me 
like  that,  Alan.  You  must  not." 

"How  can  I  help  it,  sweetheart?  I  am  no  ice- 
berg. I  am  a  man  and  you  are  the  one  woman  in 
the  world  for  me.  I  love  you — love  you.  I  w^ant 
you.  I'm  going  to  have  you — make  you  mine — 
marry  you,  bell  and  book,  what  you  will,  so  long 
as  you  are  mine — mine — mine." 

Tony  set  down  her  basket,  clasped  her  hands  be- 
hind her  and  stood  looking  straight  up  into  his  face. 

"Listen,  Alan.     I  cannot  marry  you.     I  couldn't, 


AND  THERE  IS  A  FLAME  133 

even  if  I  loved  you,  and  I  don't  think  I  do  love  you, 
though  you  fascinate  me  and,  when  we  are  dancing, 
I  forget  all  the  other  things  in  you  that  I  hate.  I 
have  been  very  foolish  and  maybe  unkind  to  let  it 
go  on  so  far.  I  didn't  quite  know  what  I  was  doing. 
Girls  don't  know.  That  is  why  they  play  with  men 
as  they  do.  They  don't  mean  to  be  cruel.  They 
just  don't  know." 

"But  you  know  now,  my  Tony?"  His  dark, 
stormy  face  was  very  close  to  hers.  Tony  felt  her 
hearf  leap  but  she  did  not  flinch  nor  pull  away  this 
time. 

"Yes,  Alan,  I  know,  in  a  way,  at  least.  We 
mustn't  go  on  like  this.  It  is  bad  for  us  both.  I'll 
tell  Carlotta  I  am  going  home  to-morrow." 

"You  want — to  go  away  from  me?"  The  haunt- 
ing music  of  his  voice,  more  moving  in  its  hurt  than 
in  its  mastery  of  mood,  stirred  Tony  Holiday  pro- 
foundly, but  she  steadied  herself  by  a  strong  effort 
of  wTill.  She  must  not  let  him  sweep  her  away  from 
her  moorings.  She  must  not.  She  must  remember 
Holiday  Hill  very  hard. 

"I  have  to,  Alan,"  she  said.  "I  am  very  sorry  if 
I  have  hurt  you,  am  hurting  you.  But  I  can't 
marry  you.  That  is  final.  The  sooner  we  end 
things  the  better." 

"By  God!  It  isn't  final.  It  never  will  be  so 
long  as  you  and  I  are  both  alive.  You  will  come 
to  me  of  your  own  accord.  You  will  love  me.  You 
do  love  me  now.  But  you  are  letting  the  world 
come  in  between  where  it  has  no  right  to  come.  I 
tell  you  you  are  mine — mine!" 

"No,  no !"  denied  Tony. 

"And  I  say  yes,  my  love.  You  are  my  love.  I 
have  set  my  seal  upon  you.  You  can  go  away,  back 
to  your  Hill,  but  you  will  not  be  happy  without  me. 
You  will  never  forget  me  for  a  waking  moment. 
You  cannot.  You  are  a  part  of  me,  forever." 


134  WILD  WINGS 


There  was  something  solemn,  inexorable  in  Alan's 
tones.  A  strange  fear  clutched  at  Tony's  heart. 
Was  he  right?  Could  she  never  forget  him? 
Would  he  always  be  a  part  of  her — forever?  No, 
that  was  nonsense!  How  could  it  be  true?  How 
could  he  have  set  his  seal  upon  her  when  he  had 
never  even  kissed  her?  She  would  not  let  him  hyp- 
notize her  into  believing  his  prophecy. 

She  stooped  mechanically  to  pick  up  her  roses 
and  remembered  the  story  of  Persephone  gathering 
lilies  in  the  vale  of  Enna  and  suddenly  borne  off 
by  the  coal  black  horses  of  Dig  to  the  dark  kingdom 
of  the  lower  world.  Was  she  Persephone?  Had 
she  eaten  of  the  pomegranate  seeds  while  she 
danced  night  after  night  in  Alan  Massey's  arms? 
No,  she  would  not  believe  it.  She  was  free.  She 
would  exile  Alan  Massey  from  her  heart  and  life. 
She  must. 

This  resolve  was  in  her  eyes  as  she  lifted  them  to 
Alan's.  The  fire  had  died  out  of  his  now,  and  his 
face  was  gray  and  drawn  in  the  sunshine.  His 
mood  had  changed  as  his  moods  so  often  did  swiftly. 

"Forgive  me,  Tony,"  he  said  humbly.  "I  have 
troubled  you,  frightened  you.  I  am  sorry.  You 
needn't  go  away.  I  will  go.  I  don't  want  to  spoil 
one  moment  of  happiness  for  you.  I  never  shall, 
except  when  the  devil  is  in  me.  Please  try  to  re- 
member that.  Say  always,  'Alan  loves  me.  No 
matter  what  he  does  or  says,  he  loves  me.  His 
love  is  real,  if  nothing  else  about  him  is.'  You  do 
believe  that,  don't  you,  dearest?"  he  pleaded. 

"I  do,  Alan.  I  have  always  believed  it,  I  think, 
ever  since  that  first  night,  though  I  have  tried  not 
to.  I  am  very  sorry  though.  Love — your  kind  of 
love  is  a  fearful  thing.  I  am  afraid  of  it." 

"It  is  fearful,  but  beautiful  too — very  beautiful— 
like  fire.  Did  you  ever  think  what  a  strange  dual 
element  fire  is?  It  consumes — is  a  force  of  des- 


AND  THERE  IS  A  FLAME  135 

truction.  But  it  also  purifies,  burns  out  dross. 
Love  is  like  that,  my  Tony.  Mine  for  you  may  damn 
me  forever,  or  it  may  take  me  to  the  very  gate  of 
Heaven.  I  don't  know  myself  which  it  will  be." 

As  he  spoke  there  was  a  strange  kind  of  illumina- 
tion on  his  face,  a  look  almost  of  spiritual  exalta- 
tion. It  awed  Tony,  bereft  her  of  words.  This 
was  a  new  Alan  Massey — an  Alan  Massey  she  had 
never  seen  before,  and  she  found  herself  looking  up 
instead  of  down  at  him. 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  hand  reverently,  as  a 
devotee  might  pay  homage  at  the  shrine  of  a  saint. 

"I  shall  not  see  you  again  until  to-night,  Tony. 
I  am  going  into  town.  But  I  shall  be  back — for 
one  more  dance  with  you,  heart's  dearest.  And 
then  I  promise  I  will  go  away  and  leave  you  to- 
morrow. You  will  dance  writh  me,  Tony — once? 
We  shall  have  that  one  perfect  thing  to  remem- 
ber?" 

Tony  bowed  assent.  And  in  a  moment  she  was 
alone  with  her  roses. 

That  afternoon  she  shut  herself  in  her  room  to 
write  letters  to  the  home  people  whom  she  had 
neglected  badly  of  late.  Every  moment  had  been 
so  full  since  she  had  come  to  Carlotta's.  There  had 
been  so  little  time  to  write  and  when  she  had  writ- 
ten it  had  given  little  of  what  she  was  really  living 
and  feeling — just  the  mere  externals  and  not  all  of 
them,  as  she  was  very  well  aware.  They  would 
never  understand  her  relation  with  Alan.  They 
would  disapprove,  just  as  Dick  had  disapproved. 
Perhaps  she  did  not  understand,  herself,  why  she 
had  let  herself  get  so  deeply  entangled  in  something 
which  could  not  go  on,  something,  which  was  the 
profoundest  folly,  if  nothing  worse. 

The  morning  had  crystallized  her  fear  of  the 
growing  complication  of  the  situation.  She  was 
glad  Alan  was  going  away,  glad  she  had  had  the 


136  WILD  WINGS 


strength  of  will  to  deny  him  his  will,  glad  that  she 
could  now — after  to-night — coine  back  into  undis- 
puted possession  of  the  kingdom  of  herself.  But 
in  her  heart  she  was  gladder  that  there  was 
to-night  and  that  one  last  dance  with  Alan  Mas- 
sey  before  life  became  simple  and  sane  and  tame 
again,  and  Alan  and  his  wild  love  passed  out  of  it 
forever. 

She  finished  her  letters,  which  were  not  very 
satisfactory  after  all.  How  could  one  write  real 
letters  when  one's  pen  was  writing  one  thing  and 
one's  thoughts  were  darting  hither  and  thither 
about  very  different  business?  She  threw  herself  in 
the  chaise  longue,  not  yet  ready  to  dress  and  go 
down  to  join  the  others.  There  was  nobody  there 
she  cared  to  talk  to,  somehow.  Alan  was  not  there. 
Nobody  else  mattered.  It  had  come  to  that. 

Idly  she  picked  up  a  volume  of  verse  that  lay 
beside  her  on  the  table  and  fluttered  its  pages,  seek- 
ing something  to  meet  her  restless  mood.  Present- 
ly in  her  vagrant  seeking  she  chanced  upon  a  little 
poem — a  poem  she  read  and  reread,  twice,  three 
times. 

"For  there  is  a  flame  that  has  blown  too  near, 
And  there  is  a  name  that  has  grown  too  dear, 

And  there  is  a  fear. 
And  to  the  still  hills  and  cool  earth  and  far  sky  I  make 

moan. 

The  heart  in  my  bosom  is  not  my  own ! 
Oh,  would  I  were  free  as  the  wind  on  wing! 
Love  is  a  terrible  thing!" 

Tony  laid  the  book  face  down  upon  the  table,  still 
open  at  the  little  verse.  The  shadows  were  grow- 
ing long  out  there  in  the  dusk.  The  late  afternoon 
sun  was  pale  honey  color.  A  soft  little  breeze 
stirred  the  branches  of  a  weeping  willow  tree  and 


AND  THERE  IS  A  FLAME  137 

set  them  to  swaying  languorously.  Unseen  birds 
twittered  happily  among  the  shrubbery.  A  golden 
butterfly  poised  for  a  moment  above  the  white  holly 
hocks  and  then  drifted  off  over  the  flaming  scarlet 
poppies  and  was  lost  to  sight. 

It  was  all  so  beautiful,  so  serene.  She  felt  that 
it  should  have  come  like  a  benediction,  cooling  the 
fever  of  her  tired  mind,  but  it  did  not  It  could  not 
even  drive  the  words  of  the  poem  out  of  her  head. 

Oh,  would  I  were  free  as  the  wind  on  wing ! 
Love  is  a  terrible  thing! 


CHAPTER  XIII 

BITTER   FRUIT 

FROM  the  North  Station  in  Boston  Alan  Massey 
directed  his  course  to  a  small  cigar  store  on  Atlan- 
tic Avenue.     A  black  eyed  Italian  lad  in  attend 
ance  behind  the  counter  looked  up  as  he  entered 
and  surveyed  him  with  grave  scrutiny. 

"I  am  Mr.  Massey,"  announced  Alan.  "Mr. 
Roberts  is  expecting  me.  I  wired." 

"Jim's  sick,"  said  the  boy  briefly. 

"I  am  sorry.     I  hope  he  is  not  too  sick  to  see  me." 

"Naw,  he'll  see  you.  He  wants  to."  The  speak- 
er motioned  Alan  to  follow  him  to  the  rear  of  the 
store.  Together  they  mounted  some  narrow  stairs, 
passed  through  a  hallway  and  into  a  bedroom,  a 
disorderly,  dingy,  obviously  man-kept  affair.  On 
the  bed  lay  a  large  framed,  exceedingly  ugly  looking 
man.  His  flesh  was  yellow  and  sagged  loosely  away 
from  his  big  bones.  The  impression  he  gave  was 
one  of  huge  animal  bulk,  shriveling  away  in  an  un- 
lovely manner,  getting  ready  to  disintegrate  en- 
tirely. The  man  was  sick  undoubtedly.  Possibly 
dying.  He  looked  it. 

The  door  shut  with  a  soft  click.  The  two  men 
were  alone. 

"Hello,  Jim."  Alan  approached  the  bed.  "Bad 
as  this?  I  am  sorry."  He  spoke  with  the  care- 
less, easy  friendliness  he  could  assume  when  it 
suited  him. 

The  man  grinned,  faintly,  ironically.     The  grin 

138 


BITTER  FRUIT  139 


did  not  lessen  the  ugliness  of  his  face,  rather  accen- 
tuated it. 

"It's  not  so  bad,"  he  drawled.  "Nothing  but 
death  and  what's  that?  I  don't  suffer  much — not 
now.  It's  cancer,  keeps  gnawing  away  like  a  rat 
in  the  wall.  By  and  by  it  will  get  up  to  my  heart 
and  then  it's  good-by  Jim.  I  shan't  care.  What's 
life  good  for  that  a  chap  should  cling  to  it  like  a 
barnacle  on  a  rock?" 

"W£  do  though,"  said  Alan  Massey. 

"Oh,  yes,  we  do.  It's  the  way  we're  made.  We 
are  always  clinging  to  something,  good  or  bad. 
Life,  love,  home,  drink,  power,  money!  Always 
something  we  are  ready  to  sell  our  souls  to  get  or 
keep.  With  you  and  me  it  was  money.  You  sold 
your  soul  to  me  to  keep  money  and  I  took  it  to 
get  money." 

He  laughed  raucously  and  Alan  winced  at  the 
sound  and  cursed1  the  morbid  curiosity  that  had 
brought  him  to  the  bedside  of  this  man  who  for 
three  years  past  had  held  his  own  future  in  his 
dirty  hand,  or  claimed  to  hold  it.  Alan  Massey 
had  paid,  paid  high  for  the  privilege  of  not  know- 
ing things  he  did  not  wish  to  know. 

"What  kind  of  a  trail  had  you  struck  when  you 
wired  me,'  Massey?  I  didn't  know  you  were  anx- 
ious for  details  about  young  John  Massey's  career 
I  thought  you  preferred  ignorance.  It  was  what 
you  bought  of  me." 

"I  know  it  was,"  groaned  Alan,  dropping  into  a 
creaking  rocker  beside  the  bed.  "I  am  a  fool.  I 
admit  it.  But  sometimes  it  seems  to  me  I  can't 
stand  not  knowing.  I  want  to  squeeze  what  you 
know  out  of  you  as  you  would  squeeze  a  lemon  until 
there  was  nothing  left  but  bitter  pulp.  It  is  driving 
me  mad." 

The  sick  man  eyed  the  speaker  with  a  leer  of 
malicious  satisfaction.  It  was  meat  to  his  soul  to 


140  WILD  WINGS 


see  this  lordly  young  aristocrat  racked  with  misery 
and  dread,  to  hold  him  in  his  power  as  a  cat  holds 
a  mouse,  which  it  can  crush  and  crunch  at  any 
moment  if  it  will.  Alan  Massey's  mood  filled  Jim 
Roberts  with  exquisite  enjoyment,  enjoyment  such 
as  a  gourmand  feels  on  setting  his  teeth  in  some 
rare  morsel  of  food. 

"I  know,"  he  nodded.  "It  works  like  that  often. 
They  say  a  murderer  can't  keep  away  from  the  scene 
of  his  crime  if  he  is  left  at  large.  There  is  an  ir- 
resistible fascination  to  him  about  the  spot  where 
he  damned  his  immortal  soul." 

"I'm  not  a  criminal,"  snarled  Alan.  "Don't  talk 
to  me  like  that  or  you  will  never  see  another  cent  of 
my  money." 

"Money!"  sneered  the  sick  man.  "What's  that 
to  me  now?  I've  lost  my  taste  for  money.  It  is 
no  good  to  me  any  more.  I've  got  enough  laid  by 
to  bury  me  and  I  can't  take  the  rest  with  me.  Your 
money  is  nothing  to  me,  Alan  Massey.  But  you'll 
pay  still,  in  a  different  way.  I  am  glad  you  came. 
It  is  doing  me  good." 

Alan  made  a  gesture  of  disgust  and  got  to  his 
feet,  pacing  to  and  fro,  his  face  dark,  his  soul  torn, 
between  conflicting  emotions. 

"I'll  be  dead  soon,"  went  on  the  malicious,  purr- 
ing voice  from  the  bed.  "Don't  begrudge  me  my 
last  fling.  When  I  am  in  my  grave  you  will  be  safe. 
Nobody  in  the  living  world  but  me  knows  young 
John  Massey's  alive.  You  can  keep  your  money 
then  with  perfect  ease  of  mind  until  you  get  to 
where  I  am  now  and  then, — maybe  you  will  find  out 
the  money  will  comfort  you  no  longer,  that  nothing 
but  having  a  soul  can  get  you  over  the  river." 

The  younger  man's  march  came  to  a  halt  by  the 
bedside. 

"You  shan't  die  until  you  tell  me  what  you  know 
about  John  Massey,"  he  said  fiercely. 


BITTER  FRUIT  141 


"You're  a  fool,"  said  James  Roberts.  "What  you 
don't  know  you  are  not  responsible  for — you  can 
forget  in  a  way.  If  you  insist  on  hearing  the  whole 
story  you  will  never  be  able  to  get  away  from  it  to 
your  dying  day.  John  Massey  as  an  abstraction  is 
one  thing.  John  Massey  as  a  live  human  being, 
whom  you  have  cheated  out  of  a  name  and  a  fortune, 
is  another." 

"I  never  cheated  him  of  a  name.     You  did  that." 

The  man  grunted. 

"Right.  That  is  on  my  bill.  Lord  knows,  I  wish 
it  wasn't.  Little  enough  did  I  ever  get  out  of  that 
particular  piece  of  deviltry.  I  over-reached  myself, 
was  a  darned  little  bit  too  smart.  I  held  on  to  the 
boy,  thinking  I'd  get  more  out  of  it  later,  and  he 
slid  out  of  my  hands  like  an  eel  and  I  had  nothing 
to  show  for  it,  until  you  came  along  and  I  saw  a 
chance  to  make  a  new  deal  at  your  expense.  You 
fell  for  it  like  a  lamb  to  the  slaughter.  I'll  never 
forget  your  face  when  I  told  you  John  Massey  was 
alive  and  that  I  could  produce  him  in  a  minute  for 
the  courts.  If  I  had,  your  name  would  have  been 
Dutch,  young  man.  You'd  never  have  gotten  a  look 
in  on  the  money.  You  had  the  sense  to  see  that. 
Old  John  died  without  a  wTill.  His  grandson  and 
not  his  grand-nephew  was  his  heir  provided  any- 
body could  dig  up  the  fellow,  and  I  was  the  boy  that 
could  do  that.  I  proved  that  to  you,  Alan  Massey." 

"You  proved  nothing.  You  scared  me  into  hand- 
ing you  over  a  whole  lot  of  money,  you  blackmailing 
rascal,  I  admit  that.  But  you  didn't  prove  any- 
thing. You  showed  me  the  baby  clothes  you  said 
John  Massey  wore  when  he  was  stolen.  The  name 
might  easily  enough  have  been  stamped  on  the  linen 
later.  You  showed  me  a  silver  rattle  marked  'John 
Massey.'  The  inscription  might  also  easily  enough 
have  been  added  later  at  a  crook's  convenience. 
You  showed  me  some  letters  purporting  to  have 


142  WILD  WINGS 


been  written  by  the  woman  who  stole  the  child  and 
was  too  much  frightened  by  her  crime  to  get  the 
gains  she  planned  to  win  from  it.  The  letters,  too, 
might  easily  have  been  forgery.  The  whole  thing 
might  have  been  a  cock  and  bull  story,  fabricated 
by  a  rotten,  clever  mind  like  yours,  to  apply  the 
money  screw  to  me." 

"True,"  chuckled  Jim  Roberts.  "Quite  true.  I 
wondered  at  your  credulity  at  the  time." 

"You  rat!     So  it  was  all  a  fake,  a  trap?" 

"You  would  like  to  believe  that,  wouldn't  you? 
You  would  like  to  have  a  dying  man's  oath  that 
there  was  nothing  but  a  pack  of  lies  to  the  whole 
thing,  blackmail  of  the  crudest,  most  unsupport- 
able  variety?" 

Alan  bent  over  the  man,  shook  his  fist  in  the  evil, 
withered  old  face. 

"Damn  you,  Jim  Roberts !  Was  it  a  lie  or  was  it 
not?" 

"Keep  your  hands  off  me,  Alan  Massey.  It  was 
the  truth.  Sarah  Nelson  did  steal  the  child  just  as 
I  told  you.  She  gave  the  child  to  me  when  she  was 
dying  a  few  months  later.  I'll  give  my  oath  on  that 
if  you  like." 

Alan  brushed  his  hand  across  his  forehead,  and 
sat  down  again  limply  in  the  creaking  rocker. 

"Oh,  you  are  willing  to  believe  that  again  now, 
are  you?"  mocked  Roberts. 

"I've  got  to,  I  suppose.  Go  on.  Tell  me  the 
rest.  I've  got  to  know.  Did  you  really  make  a 
circus  brat  of  John  Massey  and  did  he  really  run 
away  from  you?  That  is  all  you  told  me  before, 
you  remember." 

"It  was  all  you  wanted  to  know.  Besides,"  the 
man  smiled  his  diabolical  grin  again,  "there  was  a 
reason  for  going  light  on  the  details.  At  the  time 
I  held  you  up  I  hadn't  any  more  idea  than  you  had 
where  John  Massey  was,  nor  whether  he  was  even 


BITTER  FRUIT  143 


alive.  It  was  the  weak  spot  in  my  armor.  But 
you  were  so  panic  stricken  at  the  thought  of  having 
to  give  up  your  gentleman's  fortune  that  you  never 
looked  at  the  hollowness  of  the  thing.  You  could 
have  bowled  over  my  whole  scheme  in  a  minute  by 
being  honest  and  telling  me  to  bring  on  your  cousin, 
John  Massey.  But  you  didn't.  You  were  only  too 
afraid  I  would  bring  him  on  before  you  could  buy 
me  off.  I  knew  I  could  count  on  your  being  blind 
and  rotten.  I  knew  my  man." 

"Tnen  you  don't  know  now  whether  John  Massey 
is  alive  or  not?"  Alan  asked  after  a  pause  during 
which  he  let  the  full  irony  of  the  man's  confession 
sink  into  his  heart  and  turn  there  like  a  knife  in  a 
wound. 

"That  is  where  you're  dead  wrong.  I  do  know. 
[  made  it  my  business  to  find  out.  It  was  too  im- 
portant to  have  an  invulnerable  shield  not  to  patch 
up  the  discrepancy  as  early  as  possible.  It  took  me 
a  year  to  get  my  facts  and  it  cost  a  good  chink  of  the 
filthy,  but  I  got  them.  I  not  only  know  that  John 
Massey  is  alive  but  I  know  where  he  is  and  what  he 
is  doing.  I  could  send  for  him  to-morrow,  and 
cook  your  goose  for  you  forever,  young  man." 

He  pulled  himself  up  on  one  elbow  to  peer  into 
Alan's  gloomy  face. 

"I  may  do  it  yet,"  he  added.  "You  needn't  offer 
me  hush  money.  It's  no  good  to  me,  as  I  told  you. 
I  don't  want  money.  I  only  want  to  pass  the  time 
until  the  reaper  comes  along.  You'll  grant  that 
it  would  be  amusing  to  me  to  watch  the  see-saw  tip 
once  more,  to  see  you  go  down  and  your  cousin  John 
come  up." 

Alan  was  on  his  feet  again  now,  striding  nerv^ 
ously  from  door  to  window  and  back  again.  He 
had  wanted  to  know.  Now  he  knew.  He  had 
knowledge  bitter  as  wormwood.  The  man  had  lied 
before.  He  was  not  lying  now. 


144  WILD  WINGS 


"What  made  you  send  that  wire?  Were  you  on 
the  track,  too,  trying  to  find  out  on  your  own  where 
your  cousin  is?" 

"Not  exactly.  Lord  knows  I  didn't  want  to  know. 
But  I  had  a  queer  hunch.  Some  coincidences 
bobbed  up  under  my  nose  that  I  didn't  like  the  looks 
of.  I  met  a  young  man  a  few  days  ago  that  was 
about  the  age  John  would  have  been,  a  chap  with  a 
past,  wrho  had  run  away  from  a  circus.  The  thing 
stuck  in  my  crop,  especially  as  there  was  a  kind  of 
shadowy  resemblance  between  us  that  people 
noticed." 

"That  is  interesting.     And  his  name?" 

"He  goes  under  the  name  of  Carson — Kichard 
Carson." 

Koberts  nodded. 

"The  same.  Good  boy.  You  have  succeeded  in 
finding  your  cousin.  Congratulations !"  he  cackled 
maliciously. 

"Then  it  really  is  he?" 

"Not  a  doubt  of  it.  He  was  taken  up  by  a  family 
named  Holiday  in  Dunbury,  Massachusetts.  They 
gave  him  a  home,  saw  that  he  got  some  schooling, 
started  him  on  a  country  newspaper.  He  was 
smart,  took  to  books,  got  ahead,  was  promoted 
from  one  paper  to  another.  He  is  on  a  New  York 
daily  now,  making  good  still,  I'm  told.  Does  it 
tally?" 

Alan  bowed  assent.  It  tallied  all  too  well.  The 
lad  he  had  insulted,  jeered  at,  hated  with  instinc- 
tive hate,  was  his  cousin,  John  Massey,  the  third, 
whom  he  had  told  the  other  was  quite  dead.  John 
Massey  was  very  much  alive  and  was  the  rightful 
heir  to  the  fortune  which  Alan  Massev  was  spend- 
ing as  the  heavens  had  spent  rain  yesterday. 

It  was  worse  than  that.  If  the  other  was  no 
longer  nameless,  had  the  right  to  the  same  fine,  old 
name  that  Alan  himself  bore,  and  had  too  often 


BITTER  FRUIT  145 


disgraced,  the  barrier  between  him  and  Tony  Holi- 
day was  swept  away.  That  was  the  bitterest  drop 
in  the  cup.  No  wonder  he  hated  Dick — hated  him 
now  with  a  cumulative,  almost  murderous  intensity. 
He  had  mocked  at  the  other,  but  how  should  he 
stand  against  him  in  fair  field?  It  was  he — Alan 
Massey — that  was  the  outcast,  his  mother  a  woman 
of  doubtful  fame,  himself  a  follower  of  false  fires, 
his  life  ignoble,  wayward,  erratic,  unclean?  Would 
it  notJbe  John  rather  than  Alan  Massey  Tony  Holi- 
day would  choose,  if  she  knew  all?  This  ugly,  ven- 
omous, sin-scarred  old  rascal  held  his  fate  in  the 
hollow  of  his  evil  old  hand. 

The  other  was  watching  him  narrowly,  evidently 
striving  to  follow  his  thoughts. 

"Well?"  he  asked.  "Going  to  beat  me  at  my  own 
game,  give  your  cousin  his  due?" 

"No,"  curtly. 

"Queer,"  mused  the  man.  "A  month  ago  I  would 
have  understood  it.  It  would  have  seemed  sensible 
enough  to  hold  on  to  the  cold  cash  at  any  risk.  Now 
it  looks  different.  Money  is  filthy  stuff,  man.  It 
is  what  they  put  on  dead  eye-lids  to  keep  them  down. 
Sometimes  we  put  it  on  our  own  living  lids  to  keep 
us  from  seeing  straight.  You  are  sure  the  money's 
worth  so  much  to  you,  Alan  Massey?" 

The  man's  eyes  burned  livid,  like  coals.  It  was  a 
strange  and  rather  sickening  thing,  Alan  Massey 
thought,  to  hear  him  talk  like  this  after  having 
lived  the  rottenest  kind  of  a  life,  sunk  in  slime  for 
years. 

"The  money  is  nothing  to  me,"  he  flung  back. 
"Not  now.  I  thought  it  was  worth  considerable 
when  I  drove  that  devilish  bargain  with  you  to  keep 
it.  It  has  been  worse  than  nothing,  if  you  care  to 
know.  It  killed  my  art — the  only  decent  thing 
about  me — the  only  thing  I  had  a  right  to  take  hon- 
est pride  in.  John  Massey  might  have  every  penny 


146  WILD  WINGS 


of  it  to-morrow  for  all  I  care  if  that  were  all  there 
were  to  it." 

"What  else  is  there?"  probed  the  old  man. 

"None  of  your  business,"  snarled  Alan.  Not  for 
worlds  would  he  have  spoken  Tony  Holiday's  name 
in  this  spot,  under  the  baleful  gleam  of  those  dying 
eyes. 

The  man  chuckled  maliciously. 

"You  don't  need  to  tell  me,  I  know.  There's  al- 
ways a  woman  in  it  when  a  man  takes  the  path  to 
Hell.  Does  she  want  money?  Is  that  why  you 
must  hang  on  to  the  filthy  stuff?" 

"She  doesn't  want  anything  except  what  I  can't 
give  her,  thanks  to  you  and  myself — the  love  of  a 
decent  man." 

"I  see.  When  we  meet  the  woman  we  wish  we'd 
sowed  fewer  wild  oats.  I  went  through  that  my- 
self once.  She  was  a  white  lily  sort  of  girl  and  I — 
well,  I'd  gone  the  pace  long  before  I  met  her.  I 
wasn't  fit  to  touch  her  and  I  knew  it.  I  went  down 
fast  after  that — nothing  to  keep  me  back.  Old 
Shakespeare  says  something  somewhere  about  our 
pleasant  vices  beings  whips  to  goad  us  with.  You 
and  I  can  understand  that,  Alan  Massey.  We've 
both  felt  the  lash." 

Alan  made  an  impatient  gesture.  He  did  not 
care  to  be  lumped  with  this  rotten  piece  of  flesh 
lying  there  before  him. 

"I  suppose  you  are  wondering  what*my  next  move 
is,"  went  on  Roberts. 

"I  don't  care." 

"Oh  yes,  you  do.  You  care  a  good  deal.  I  can 
break  you,  Alan  Massey,  and  you  know  it." 

"Go  ahead  and  break  and  be  damned  if  you 
choose,"  raged  Alan. 

"Exactly.  As  I  choose.  And  I  can  keep  you 
dancing  on  some  mighty  hot  gridirons  before  I 
shuffle  off.  Don't  forget  that,  Alan  Massey.  And 


BITTER  FRUIT  147 


there  will  be  several  months  to  dance  yet,  if  the 
doctors  aren't  off  their  count." 

"Suit  yourself.  Don't  hurry  about  dying  on  my 
account,"  said  Alan  with  ironical  courtesy. 

A  few  moments  later  he  was  on  his  way  back  to 
the  station.  His  universe  reeled.  All  he  was  sure 
was  that  he  loved  Tony  Holiday  and  would  fight  to 
the  last  ditch  to  win  and  keep  her  and  that  she 
would  be  in  his  arms  to-night  for  perhaps  the  last 
time. .  The  rest  was  a  hideous  blur. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

SHACKLES 

THE  evening  was  a  specially  gala  occasion,  with 
a  dinner  dance  on,  the  last  big  party  before  Tony 
went  home  to  her  Hill.  The  great  ball  room  at 
Crest  House  had  been  decorated  with  a  network  of 
greenery  and  crimson  rambler  roses.  A  ruinous- 
priced,  de  luxe  orchestra  had  been  brought  down 
from  the  city.  The  girls  had  saved  their  prettiest 
gowns  and  looked  their  rainbow  loveliest  for  the 
crowning  event. 

Tony  was  wearing  an  exquisite  white  chiffon  and 
silver  creation,  with  silver  slippers  and  a  silver  fil- 
let binding  her  dark  hair.  Alan  had  sent  her  some 
wonderful  orchids  tied  with  silver  ribbon,  and  these 
she  wrore;  but  no  jewelry  whatever,  not  even  a  ring. 
There  was  something  particularly  radiant  about 
her  young  loveliness  that  night.  The  young  men 
hovered  abo-ut  her  like  honey  bees  about  a  rose  and 
at  every  dance  they  cut  in  and  cut  in  until  her  white 
and  silver  seemed  to  be  drifting  from  one  pair  of 
arms  to  another. 

Tony  was  very  gay  and  bountiful  and  impartial 
in  her  smiles  and  favors,  but  all  the  time  she  waited, 
knowing  that  presently  would  come  the  one  dance 
to  which  there  would  be  no  cutting  in,  the  dance 
that  would  make  the  others  seem  nothing  but  shad- 
ows. 

By  and  by  the  hour  struck.  She  saw  Alan  leave 
his  place  by  the  window  where  he  had  been  moodily 

148 


SHACKLES  149 

lounging,  saw  him  come  toward  her,  taller  than  any 
man  in  the  room,  distinguished — a  king  among  the 
rest,  it  seemed  to  Tony,  waiting,  longing  for  his 
coming,  yet  half  dreading  it,  too.  For  the  sooner 
he  came,  the  sooner  it  must  all  end.  She  was  with 
Hal  at  the  moment,  waiting  for  the  music  to  begin, 
but  as  Alan  approached  she  turned  to  her  compan- 
ion with  a  quick  appeal  in  her  eyes  and  a  warm 
flush  on  her  cheeks. 

"I  am  sorry,  Hal,"  she  said,  low  in  his  ear.  "But 
this  is  Alan's.  He  is  going  away  to-morrow.  For- 
give me." 

Hal  turned,  stared  at  Alan  Massey,  turned  back 
to  Tony,  bowed  and  moved  away. 

"Hanged  if  there  isn't  something  magnificent 
about  the  fellow,"  he  thought.  "No  matter  how 
you  detest  him  there  is  something  about  him  that 
gets  you.  I  wonder  how  far  he  has  gone  with  Tony. 
Gee!  It's  a  rotten  combination.  But  Lordy! 
How  they  can  dance — those  two!" 

Never  as  long  as  she  lived  was  Tony  Holiday  to 
forget  that  dance  with  Alan  Massey.  As  a  musi- 
cian pours  himself  into  his  violin,  as  »a  poet  puts 
his  soul  into  his  sonnet,  as  a  sculptor  chisels  his 
dream  in  marble,  so  her  companion  flung  his  passion 
and  despair  and  imploring  into  his  dancing.  They 
forgot  the  others,  forgot  everything  but  themselves. 
They  might  have  been  dancing  alone  on  the  top  of 
Olympus  for  all  either  knew  or  cared  for  the  rest 
of  the  world. 

It  was  Alan,  not  Tony,  who  brought  it  to  an  end, 
however.  He  whispered  something  in  the  girl's  ear 
and  their  feet  paused.  In  a  moment  he  was  holding 
open  the  French  window  for  her  to  pass  out  into 
the  night.  The  white  and  silver  vanished  like  a 
cloud.  Alan  Massey  followed.  The  window  swung 
shut  again.  The  music  stopped  abruptly  as  if  now 
its  inspiration  had  come  to  an  end.  A  single  note 


150  WILD  WINGS 


of  a  violin  quivered  off  into  silence  after  the  others, 
like  the  breath  of  beauty  itself  passing. 

Carlotta  and  her  aunt  happened  to  be  standing 
near  each  other.  The  girl's  eyes  were  troubled. 
She  wished  Alan  had  not  come  back  at  all  from  the 
city.  She  hoped  he  really  intended  to  go  away 
to-morrow  as  he  had  told  her.  More  than  all  she 
hoped  she  was  right  in  believing  that  Tony  had  re- 
fused to  marry  him.  Like  Dick,  Carlotta  had  rev- 
erence for  the  Holiday  tradition.  She  could  not 
bear  to  think  of  Tony's  marrying  Alan.  She  felt 
woefully  responsible  for  having  brought  the  two 
together. 

"Did  you  say  he  was  going  to-morrow?"  asked 
her  aunt. 

Carlotta  nodded. 

"He  won't  go,"  prophesied  Miss  Cressy. 

"Oh,  yes.  I  think  he  will.  I  don't  know  for  cer- 
tain but  I  have  an  idea  she  refused  him  this  morn- 
ing." 

"Ah,  but  that  was  this  morning.  Things  look 
very  different  by  star  light.  That  child  ought  not 
to  be  out  there  with  him.  She  is  losing  her  head." 

"Aunt  Lottie!  Alan  is  a  gentleman,"  demurred 
Carlotta. 

Miss  Lottie  smiled  satirically.  Her  smile  re- 
peated Ted  Holiday's  verdict  that  some  gentlemen 
were  rotters. 

"You  forget,  my  dear,  that  I  knew  Alan  Massey 
when  you  and  Tony  were  in  short  petticoats  and 
pigtails.  You  can't  trust  too  much  to  his  gentle- 
manliness." 

"Of  course,  I  know  he  isn't  a  saint,"  admitted 
Carlotta.  "But  you  don't  understand.  It  is  real 
with  Alan  this  time.  He  really  cares.  It  isn't 
just — just  the  one  thing." 

"It  is  always  the  one  thing  with  Alan  Massey's 
kind.  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about,  Carlotta. 


IT  WAS   HIS  GENTLENESS  THAT  CONQUERED.' 


SHACKLES  151 

He  was  a  little  in  lave  with  me  once.  I  dare  say  we 
both  thought  it  was  different  at  the  time.  It 
wasn't.  It  was  pretty  much  the  same  thing. 
Don't  cherish  any  romantic  notions  about  love, 
Carlotta.  There  isn't  any  love  as  3rou  mean  it." 

"Oh  yes,  there  is,"  denied  Carlotta  suddenly,  a 
little  fiercely.  "There  is  love,  but  most  of  us 
aren't — aren't  worthy  of  it.  It  is  too  big  for  us. 
That  is  why  we  get  the  cheap  little  stuff.  It  is  all 
we  are  fit  for." 

Miss  Carlotta  stared  at  her  niece.  But  before  she 
could  speak  HarUnderwood  had  claimed  the  latter 
for  a  dance. 

"H — m !"  she  mused  looking  after  the  two.  "So 
even  Carlotta  isn't  immune.  I  wonder  who  he  was." 

Meanwhile,  out  in  the  garden  Tony  and  Alan  had 
strayed  over  to  the  fountain,  just  as  they  had  that 
first  evening  after  that  first  dance. 

"Tony,  belovedest,  let  me  speak.  Listen  to  me 
just  once  more.  You  do  love  me.  Don't  lie  to  me 
with  your  lips  when  your  eyes  told  me  the  truth  in 
there.  You  are  mine,  mine,  my  beautiful,  my 
love — all  mine." 

He  drew  her  into  his  arms,  -not  passionately  but 
gently.  It  was  his  gentleness  that  conquered.  A 
storm  of  unrestrained  emotion  would  have  driven 
her  away  from  him,  but  his  sudden  quiet  strength 
and  tenderness  melted  her  last  reservation.  She 
gave  her  lips  unresisting  to  his  kiss.  And  with 
that  kiss,  desire  of  freedom  and  all  fear  left  her. 
For  the  moment,  at  least,  love  was  all  and  enough. 

"Tony,  my  belovedest,"  he  whispered.  "Say  it 
just  once.  Tell  me  you  love  me."  It  was  the  old, 
old  plea,  but  in  Tony's  ears  it  was  immortally  new. 

"I  love  you,  Alan.  I  didn't  want  to.  I  have 
fought  it  all  along  as  you  know.  But  it  was  no  use. 
I  do  love  you." 

"My  darling !     And  I  love  you.     You  don't  know 


152  WILD  WINGS 


how  I  love  you.  It  is  like  suddenly  coming  out  into 
sunshine  after  having  lived  in  a  cave  all  my  life. 
Will  you  marry  me  to-morrow,  carissimaf" 

But  she  drew  away  from  his  arms  at  that. 

"Alan,  I  can't  marry  you  ever.  I  can  only  love 
you." 

"Why  not?  You  must,  Tony !"  The  old  master- 
fulness leaped  into  his  voice. 

"I  cannot,  Alan.     You  know  why." 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  and  in  their  clear  depths 
he  saw  reflected  his  own  willful,  stained,  undisci- 
plined past.  He  bowed  his  head  in  real  shame  and 
remorse.  Nothing  stood  between  himself  and  An- 
toinette Holiday  but  himself.  He  had  sown  the 
wind.  He  reaped  the  whirlwind. 

After  a  moment  he  looked  up  again.  He  made 
no  pretence  of  misunderstanding  her  meaning. 

"You  couldn't  forgive?"  he  pleaded  brokenly. 
Gone  was  the  royal-willed  Alan  Massey.  Only  a 
beggar  in  the  dust  remained. 

"Yes,  Alan.  I  could  forgive.  I  do  now.  I  think 
I  can  understand  how  such  things  can  be  in  a  man's 
life  though  it  would  break  my  heart  to  think  Ted 
or  Larry  were  like  that.  But  you  never  had  a 
chance.  Nobody  ever  helped  you  to  keep  your  eyes 
on  the  stars." 

"They  are  there  now,"  he  groaned.  "You  are 
my  star,  Tony,  and  stars  are  very,  very  far  away 
from  the  like  of  me,"  he  echoed  Carlotta's  phrase. 

For  almost  the  first  time  in  his  life  humility  pos- 
sessed him.  Had  he  known  it,  it  lifted  him  higher 
in  Tony's  eyes  than  all  his  arrogance  and  conceit  of 
power  had  ever  done. 

Gently  she  slid  her  hand  into  his. 

"I  don't  feel  far  away,  Alan.  I  feel  very  near. 
But  I  can't  marry  you — not  now  anyway.  You  will 
have  to  prove  to  them  all — to  me,  too — that  you  are 
a  man  a  Holiday  might  be  proud  to  marry.  I  could 


SHACKLES  153 

forget  the  past.  I  think  I  could  persuade  Uncle 
Phil  and  the  rest  to  forget  it,  too.  They  are  none 
of  them  self-righteous  Puritans.  They  could  under- 
stand, just  as  I  understand,  that  a  man  might  fall 
in  battle  and  carry  scars  of  defeat,  but  not  be  really 
conquered.  Alan,  tell  me  something.  It  isn't  easy 
to  ask  but  I  must.  Are  the  things  I  have  to  forget 
far  back  in  the  past  or — nearer?  I  know  they  go 
back  to  Paris  days,  the  days  Miss  Lottie  belongs  to. 
Oh,  yes,"  as  he  started  at  that.  "I  guessed  that. 
You  mustn't  blame  her.  She  was  merely  trying  to 
warn  me.  She  meant  it  for  my  good,  not  to  be  spite- 
ful and  not  because  she  still  cares,  though  I  think 
she  does.  And  I  know  there  are  things  that  belong 
to  the  time  after  your  mother  died,  and  you  didn't 
care  what  you  did  because  you  were  so  unhappy. 
But  are  they  still  nearer?  How  close  are  they, 
Alan?"  • 

He  shook  his  head  despairingly. 

"I  wish  I  could  lie  to  you,  Tony.  I  can't.  They 
are  too  close  to  be  pleasant  to  remember.  But  they 
never  will  be  again.  I  swear  it.  Can  you  believe 
it?" 

"I  shall  have  to  believe  it — be  convinced  of  it  be- 
fore I  could  marry  you.  I  can't  marry  you,  not 
being  certain  of  you,  just  because  -my  heart  beats 
fast  when  you  come  near  me,  because  I  love  your 
voice  and  your  kisses  and  would  rather  dance  with 
you  than  to  be  sure  of  going  to  Heaven.  Marriage 
is  a  world  without  end  business.  I  can't  rush  into 
it  blindfold.  I  won't." 

"You  don't  love  me  as  I  love  you  or  you  couldn't 
reason  so  coldly  about  it,"  he  reproached.  "You 
would  go  blindfold  anywhere — to  Hell  itself  even, 
with  me." 

"I  don't  know,  Alan.  I  could  let  myself  go. 
While  we  were  dancing  in  there  I  am  afraid  I  would 
have  been  willing  to  go  even  as  far  as  you  say  with 


154  WILD  WINGS 


you.  But  out  here  in  the  star-light  I  am  back  being 
myself.  I  want  to  make  my  life  into  something 
clean  and  sweet  and  fine.  I  don't  want  to  let  my- 
self be  driven  to  follow  weak,  selfish,  rash  impulses 
and  do  things  that  will  hurt  other  people  and  my- 
self. I  don't  want  to  make  my  people  sorry.  They 
are  dearer  than  any  happiness  of  my  own.  They 
would  not  let  me  marry  you  now,  even  if  I  wished 
it.  If  I  did  what  you  want  and  what  maybe  some- 
thing in  me  wants  too — run  off  and  marry  you  to- 
morrow without  their  consent — it  would  break 
their  hearts  and  mine,  afterward  when  I  had  waked 
up  to  what  I  had  done.  Don't  ask  me,  dear.  I 
couldn't  do  it." 

"But  what  will  you  do,  Tony?  Won't  you  marry 
me  ever?"  Alan's  tone  was  helpless,  desolate.  He 
had  run  up  against  a  power  stronger  than  any  he 
had  ever  wielded,  a  force  which  left  him  baffled. 

"I  don't  know.  It  will  depend  upon  you.  A 
year  from  now,  if  you  still  want  me  and  I  am  still 
free,  if  you  can  come  to  me  and  tell  me  you  have 
lived  for  twelve  months  as  a  man  who  loves  a  woman 
ought  to  live,  I  will  marry  you  if  I  love  you  enough ; 
and  I  think — I  am  sure,  I  shall,  for  I  love  you  very 
much  this  minute." 

"A  year!  Tony,  I  can't  wait  a  year  for  you.  I 
want  you  now."  Alan's  tone  was  sharp  with  dis- 
may. He  was  not  used  to  waiting  for  what  he  de- 
sired. He  had  taken  it  on  the  instant,  as  a  rule, 
and  as  a  rule,  his  takings  had  been  dust  and  ashes 
as  soon  as  they  were  in  his  hands. 

"You  cannot  have  me,  Alan.  You  can  never  have 
me  unless  you  earn  the  right  to  win  me — straight. 
Understand  that  once  for  all.  I  will  not  marry  a 
weakling.  I  will  marry — a  conquerer — perhaps." 

"You  mean  that,  Tony?" 

"Absolutely." 

"Then,  by  God,  I'll  be  a  conquerer !"  he  boasted, 


SHACKLES  155 

"I  hope  you  will.  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear!  It 
will  break  my  heart  if  you  fail.  I  love  you."  And 
suddenly  Tony  was  clinging  to  him,  just  a  woman 
who  cared,  who  wanted  her  lover,  even  as  he  wanted 
her.  But  in  a  breath  she  pulled  herself  away. 
"Take  me  in,  Alan,  now/'  she  said.  "Kiss  me  once 
before  we  go.  I  shall  not  see  you  in  the  morning. 
This  is  really  good-by." 

Later,  Carlotta,  coming  in  to  say  goodnight  to 
Tony,  found  the  latter  sitting  in  front  of  the  mirror 
brushing  out  her  abundant  red-brown  hair  and  no- 
ticed how  very  scarlet  her  friend's  cheeks  were  and 
what  a  tell-tale  shining  glory  there  was  in  her  eyes. 

"It  was  a  lovely  party,"  announced  Tony  casually, 
unaware  how  much  Carlotta  had  seen  over  her 
shoulder  in  the  mirror. 

"Tony,  are  you  in  love  with  Alan  Massey?"  de- 
manded Carlotta. 

Tony  whirled  around  on  the  stool,  her  cheeks 
flying  deeper  crimson  banners  at  this  unexpected 
challenge. 

"I  am  afraid  I  am,  Carlotta,"  she  admitted.  "It 
is  rather  a  mess,  isn't  it?" 

Carlott-a  groaned  and  dropping  into  a  chaise 
longue  encircled  her  knees  with  her.  arms,  staring 
with  troubled  eyes  at  her  guest. 

"A  mess?  I  should  say  it  was — worse  than  a 
mess — a  catastrophe.  You  know  what  Alan  is — 
isn't —  "  She  floundered  off  into  silence. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Tony,  the  more  tranquil  of  the 
two.  "I  know  what  he  is  and  isn't,  better  than 
most  people,  I. think.  I  ought  to.  But  I  love  him. 
I  just  discovered  it  to-night,  or  rather  it  is  the  first 
time  I  ever  let  myself  look  straight  at  the  fact.  I 
think  I  have  known  it  from  the  beginning." 

"But  Tony !  You  won't  marry  him.  You  can't. 
Your  people  will  never  let  you.  They  oughtn't  to 
let  you." 


156  WILD  WINGS 


Tony  shook  back  her  wavy  inane  of  hair,  sent  it 
billowing  over  her  rose-colored  satin  kimono. 

"It  don't  matter  if  the  whole  world  won't  let  me. 
If  I  decide  to  marry  Alan  I  shall  do  it." 

"Tony !" 

There  was  shocked  consternation  in  Carlotta's 
tone  and  Tony  relenting  burst  into  a  low,  tremulous 
little  laugh. 

"Don't  worry,  Carlotta.  I'm  not  so  mad  as  I 
sound.  I  told  Alan  he  would  have  to  wait  a  year. 
He  has  to  prove  to  me  he  is — worth  loving." 

"But  you  are  engaged?"  Carlotta  was  relieved, 
but  not  satisfied. 

Tony  shook  her  head. 

"Absolutely  not.  We  are  both  free  as  air — 
technically.  If  you  were  in  love  yourself  you 
would  know  how  much  that  amounts  to  by  way  of 
freedom." 

Carlotta's  golden  head  was  bowed.  She  did  not 
answer  her  friend's  implication  that  she  could  not 
be  expected  to  comprehend  the  delicate,  invisible, 
omnipotent  shackles  of  love. 

"Don't  tell  anyone,  Carlotta,  please.  It  is  our 
secret — Alan's  and  mine.  Maybe  it  will  always  be 
a  secret  unless  he — measures  up." 

"You  are  not  going  to  tell  your  uncle?" 

"There  is  nothing  to  tell  yet." 

"And  I  suppose  this  is  the  end  of  poor,  Dick." 

"Don't  be  silly,  Carlotta.  Dick  newer  said  a 
word  of  love  to  me  in  his  life." 

"That  doesn't  mean  he  doesn't  think  ^em.  You 
have  convenient  eyes,  Tony  darling.  You  see  only 
what  you  wish  to  see." 

"I  didn't  want  to  see  Alan's  love.  I  tried  dread- 
fully hard  not  to.  But  it  set  up  a  fire  in  my  own 
house  and  blazed  and  smoked  until  I  had  to  do  some- 
thing about  it.  See  here,  Carlotta.  I'd  like  to 
ask  you  a  question  or  two.  You  are  not  really  go- 


SHACKLES  157 

ing  to  marry  Herbert  Lathrop,  are  you?" 

A  queer  little  shadow,  almost  like  a  veil,  passed 
over  Carlotta's  face  at  this  counter  charge.1 

"Why  not?"  she  parried. 

"You  know  why  not.  He  is  exactly  what  Hal 
Underwood  calls  him,  a  poor  fish.  He  is  as  close  to 
being  a  nonentity  as  anything  I  ever  saw." 

"Precisely  why  I  selected  him,"  drawled  Carlotta. 
"I've  got  to  marry  somebody  and  poor  Herbert 
hasn't^  a  vice  except  his  excess  of  virtue.  We  can't 
have  another  old  maid  in  the  family.  Aunt  Lottie 
is  a  shining  example  of  what  to  avoid.  I  am  not 
going  to  be  'Lottie  the  second'  I  have  decided  on 
that)' 

"As  if  you  could,"  protested  Tony  indignantly. 

"Oh,  I  could.  You  look  at  Aunt  Lottie's  pictures 
of  fifteen  years  ago.  She  was  just  as  pretty  as  I 
am.  She  had  loads  of  lovers  but  somehow  they  all 
slipped  through  her  fingers.  She  has  been  sex- 
starved.  She  ought  to  have  married  and  had  chil- 
dren. I  don't  want  to  be  a  hungry  spinster.  They 
are  infernally  miserable." 

"Carlotta!"  Tony  was  a  little  shocked  at  her 
friend's  bluntness,  a  little  puzzled  as  to  what  lay  be- 
hind her  arguments.  "You  don't  have  to  be  a  hun- 
gry spinster.  There  are  other  men  besides  Herbert 
that  want  to  marry  you." 

"Certainly.  Some  of  them  want  to  marry  my 
money.  Some  of  them  want  to  marry  my  body.  I 
grant  you  Herbert  is  a  poor  fish  in  some  ways,  but  at 
least  he  wants  to  marry  me,  myself,  which  is  more 
than  the  others  do." 

"That  isn't  true.  Hal  Underwood  wants  to 
marry  you,  yourself." 

"Oh,  Hal !"  conceded  Carlotta.  "I  forgot  him  for 
a  moment.  Yon  are  right.  He  is  real — too  real. 
I  should  hurt  him  marrying  him  and  not  caring 
enough.  That  is  why  a  nonentity  is  preferable. 


158  WILD  WINGS 


It  doesn't  know  what  it  is  missing.  Hal  would 
know." 

"But  there  is  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  wait 
until  you  find  somebody  you  could  care  for,"  per- 
sisted Tony. 

"That  is  all  you  know  about  it,  my  dear.  There 
is  the  best  reason  in  the  world.  I  found  him — and 
lost  him." 

"Carlotta— is  it  Phil?" 

Carlotta  sprang  up  and  went  over  to  the  window. 
She  took  the  rose  she  had  been  wearing,  in  her  hands 
and  deliberately  pulled  it  apart  letting  the  petals 
drift  one  by  one  out  into  the  night.  Then  she 
turned  back  to  Tony. 

"Don't  ask  questions,  Tony.  I  am  not  going  to 
talk."  But  she  lingered  a  moment  beside  her 
friend.  "You  and  I,  Tony  darling,  don't  seem  to 
have  very  much  luck  in  love,"  she  murmured.  "I 
hope  you  will  be  happy  with  Alan,  if  you  do 
marry  him.  But  happiness  isn't  exactly  necessary. 
There  are  other  things—  She  broke  off  and  be- 
gan again.  "There  are  other  things  in  a  man's  life 
besides  love.  Somebody  said  that  to  me  once  and  I 
believe  it  is  true.  But  there  isn't  so  much  besides 
that  matters  much  to  a  woman.  I  wish  there  were. 
I  hate  love."  And  pressing  a  rare  kiss  on  her 
friend's  cheek  Carlotta  vanished  for  the  night. 

Meanwhile  Alan  Massey  smoked  and  thought  and 
cursed  the  past  that  had  him  in  its  hateful  toils. 
Like  the  guilty  king  in  Hamlet,  his  soul,  "struggling 
to  be  free"  was  "but  the  more  engaged."  He  hon- 
estly desired  to  be  worthy  of  Tony  Holiday,  to 
stand  clear  in  her  eyes,  but  he  did  not  want  it  badly 
enough,  to  the  "teeth  and  forehead  of  his  faults  to 
give  in  evidence."  He  did  not  want  to  bare  the  one 
worst  plague  spot  of  all  and  run  the  risk  not  only 
of  losing  Tony  himself  but  perhaps  also  of  clearing 
the  way  to  her  for  his  cousin,  John  Massey.  Small 


SHACKLES  159 


wonder  he  smoked  gall  and  wormwood  in  his  ciga- 
rettes that  night. 

And  far  away  in  the  heat  and  grime  and  din  of 
the  great  city,  Dick  Carson  the  nameless,  who  was 
really  John  Massey  and  heir  to  a  great  fortune,  sat 
dreaming  over  a  girl's  picture,  telling  himself  that 
Tony  must  care  a  little  to  have  gotten  up  in  the  sil- 
ver gray  of  the  morning  to  see  him  off  so  kindly. 
Happily  for  the  dreamer's  peace  of  mind  he  had  no 
means.of  knowing  that  that  very  night,  in  the  star- 
lit garden  by  the  sea,  Tony  Holiday  had  taken  upon 
herself  the  mad  and  sad  and  glad  bondage  of  love. 


ON   THE  EDGE   OF  THE   PRECIPICE 

TONY,  getting  off  the  train  at  Dunbury  on  Sat- 
urday, found  her  brothers  waiting  for  her  with  the 
car,  and  the  kiddies  on  the  back  seat,  "for  ballast" 
as  Ted  said.  With  one  quick  apprizing  glance  the 
girl  took  in  the  two  young  men. 

Ted  was  brown  and  healthy  looking,  clear-eyed, 
steady-nerved,  for  once,  without  the  inevitable  ciga- 
rette in  his  mouth.  He  was  oddly  improved  some- 
how, his  sister  thought,  considering  how  short  a 
time  she  had  been  away  from  the  Hill.  She  not- 
iced also  that  he  drove  the  car  much  less  recklessly 
than  was  his  wont,  took  no  chances  on  curves,  slid 
by  no  vehicles  at  hair-breadth  space,  speeded  not  at 
all,  and  though  he  kept  up  a  running  fire  of  merry 
nonsense,  had  his  eye  on  the  road  as  he  drove.  So 
far  so  good.  That  spill  out  on  the  Florence  road 
wasn't  all  loss,  it  seemed. 

Larry  was  more  baffling.  He  was  always  quiet. 
He  was  quieter  than  ever  to-day.  There  was  some- 
thing in  his  gray  eyes  which  spelled  trouble,  Tony 
thought.  What  was  it?  Was  he  worried  about  a 
case?  Was  Granny  wrorse?  Was  Ted  in  some 
scrape?  Something  there  certainly  was  on  his 
mind.  Tony  was  sure  of  that,  though  she  could 
not  conjecture  what. 

The  Holidays  had  an  almost  uncanny  way  of  un- 
derstanding things  about  each  other,  things  which 
sometimes  never  rose  to  the  surface  at  all.  Perhaps 

160 


ON  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  PRECIPICE         161 

it  was  that  they  were  so  close  together  in  sympathy 
that  a  kind  of  small  telepathic  signal  registered  au- 
tomatically when  anything  was  wrong  with  any  of 
them.  So  far  as  her  brothers  were  concerned 
Tony's  intuition  was  all  but  infallible. 

She  found  the  family  gift  a  shade  disconcerting, 
a  little  later,  when  after  her  uncle  kissed  her 
he  held  her  off  at  arm's  length  and  studied  her  face. 
Tony's  eyes  fell  beneath  his  questioning  gaze.  For 
almost  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  had  a  secret  to 
keep  from  him  if  she  could. 

"What  have  they  been  doing  to  my  little  girl?"  he 
asked.  "They  have  taken  away  her  sunshininess." 

"Oh,  no,  they  haven't,"  denied  Tony  quickly. 
"It  is  just  that  I  am  tired.  We  have  been  on  the  go 
all  the  time  and  kept  scandalously  late  hours.  I'll 
be  all  right  as  soon  as  I  have  caught  up.  I  feel  as  if 
I  could  sleep  for  a  century  and  any  prince  who  has 
the  effrontery  to  wake  me  up  will  fare  badly." 

She  laughed,  but  even  in  her  own  ears  the  laugh- 
ter did  not  sound  quite  natural  and  she  was  sure 
Uncle  Phil  thought  the  same,  though  he  asked  no 
more  questions. 

"It  is  like  living  in  a  palace  being  at  Crest 
House,"  she  went  on.  "I've  played  princess  to  my 
heart's  content — been  waited  on  and  f£ted  and 
flirted  with  until  I'm  tired  to  death  of  it  all  and 
want  to  be  just  plain  Tony  again." 

She  slid  into  her  uncle's  arms  with  a  weary  little 
sigh.  It  was  good — oh  so  good — to  have  him  again ! 
She  hadn't  known  she  had  missed  him  so  until  she 
felt  the  comfort  of  his  presence.  In  his  arms  Alan 
Massey  and  all  he  stood  for  seemed  very  far  away. 

"Got  letters  for  you  this  morning,"  announced 
Ted.  "I  forgot  to  give  them  to  you."  He  fished 
the  aforesaid  letters  out  of  his  pocket  and  examined 
them  before  handing  them  over.  "One  is  from  Dick 
—the  other — he  held  the  large  square  envelope  off 


162  WILD  WINGS 


and  squinted  at  it  teasingly.  "Some  scrawl!"  he 
commented.  "Reckless  display  of  ink  and  flour- 
ishes, I  call  it.  Who's  the  party?" 

Tony  snatched  the  letters,  her  face  rosy. 

"Give  me  Dick's.  I  haven't  heard  from  him  but 
once  since  he  went  back  to  New  York  and  that  was 
just  a  card.  Oh-h!  Listen  everybody.  The  Uni- 
versal has  accepted  his  story  and  wants  him  to  do  a 
whole  series  of  them.  Oh,  isn't  that  just  wonder- 
ful?" 

Tony's  old  sparkles  were  back  now.  There  were 
no  reservations  necessary  here.  Everybody  knew 
and  loved  Dick  and  would  be  glad  as  she  was  her- 
self in  his  success. 

"Hail  to  Dicky  Dumas !"  she  added,  gaily  waving 
the  letter  aloft.  "I  always  knew  he  would  get 
there.  And  that  was  the  very  story  he  read  me. 
Wasn't  it  lucky  I  liked  it  really?  If  I  hadn't,  and 
it  had  turned  out  to  be  good,  wouldn't  it  have  been 
awful?" 

Everybody  laughed  at  that  and  perhaps  nobody 
but  the  doctor  noticed  that  the  other  letter  in  the 
unfamiliar  handwriting  was  tucked  away  very 
quickly  out  of  sight  in  her  bag  and  no  comments 
made. 

It  was  not  until  Tony  had  gone  the  rounds  of  the 
household  and  greeted  everyone  from  Granny  down 
to  Max  that  she  read  Alan's  letter,  as  she  sat  curled 
up  in  the  cretonned  window  seat,  just  as  the  little 
girl  Tony  had  been  wont  to  sit  and  devour  love  sto- 
ries. This  was  a  love  story,  too — her  own  and  with 
a  sadly  complicated  plot  at  that. 

It  was  the  first  letter  she  had  had  from  Alan  and 
she  found  it  very  wonderful  and  exciting  reading. 
It  was  brimming  over,  as  might  have  been  expected, 
with  passionate  lover's  protests  and  extravagant 
endearments  which  Tony  could  not  have  imagined 
her  Anglo-Saxon  relatives  or  friends  even  conceiv- 


ON  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  PRECIPICE         163 

ing,  let  alone  putting  on  paper.  But  Alan  was  dif- 
ferent. These  things  were  no  affectation  with  him, 
but  natural  as  breathing,  part  and  parcel  of  his  per- 
sonality. She  could  hear  him  now  say  "carissima" 
in  that  low,  deep-cadenced,  musical  voice  of  his  and 
the  word  seemed  very  sweet  and  beautiful  to  her  as 
it  sang  in  her  heart  and  she  read  it  in  the  dashing 
script  upon  the  paper. 

He  was  desolated  without  her,  he  wrote.  Noth- 
ing was  worth  while.  Nothing  interested  him. 
He  was  refusing  all  invitations,  went  nowhere.  He 
just  sat  alone  in  the  studio  and  dreamed  about  her 
or  made  sketches  of  her  from  memory.  She  was 
everywhere,  all  about  him.  She  filled  the  studio 
with  her  voice,  her  laughter,  her  wonderful  eyes. 
But  oh,  he  was  so  lonely,  so  unutterably  lonely 
without  her.  Must  he  really  wait  a  whole  year 
before  he  made  her  his?  A  year  was  twelve  long, 
long  months.  Anything  could  happen  in  a  year. 
One  of  them  might  die  and  the  other  would  go  frus- 
trate and  lonely  forever,  like  a  sad  wind  in  the 
night. 

Tony  caught  her  breath  quickly  at  that  sentence. 
The  poetry  of  it  captivated  her  fancy,  the  dread  of 
what  it  conjured  clutched  like  cold  hands  at  her 
heart.  She  wanted  Alan  now,  wanted  love  now. 
Already  those 'dear  folks  downstairs  were  beginning 
to  seem  like  ghosts,  she  and  Alan  the  only  real  peo- 
ple. What  if  he  should  die,  what  if  something 
should  happen  to  keep  them  forever  apart,  how 
could  she  bear  it?  How  could  she? 

She  turned  back  to  her  letter  which  had  turned 
into  an  impassioned  plea  that  she  would  never  for- 
sake him,  no  matter  what  happened,  never  drive 
him  over  the  precipice  like  the  Gadderene  swine. 

"You  and  your  love  are  the  only  thing  that  can 
save  me,  dear  heart,"  he  wrote.  "Remember  that 
always.  Without  you  I  shall  go  down,  down  into 


164  WILD  WINGS 


blacker  pits  than  I  ever  sank  before.  With  you  I 
shall  come  out  into  the  light.  I  swear  it.  But  oh, 
beloved,  pray  for  me,  if  you  know  how  to  pray.  I 
don't.  I  never  had  a  god." 

There  were  tears  in  Tony's  eyes  as  she  finished 
her  lover's  letter.  His  unwonted  humility  touched 
her  as  no  arrogance  could  ever  have  done.  His 
appeal  to  his  desperate  need  moved  her  profoundly 
as  such  appeals  will  always  move  woman.  It  is  an 
old  tale  and  one  oft  repeated.  Man  crying  out  at  a 
woman's  feet,  "Save  me !  Save  me !  Myself  I  cannot 
save!"  Woman,  believing,  because  she  longs  to 
believe  it,  that  salvation  lies  in  her  power,  taking  on 
herself  the  all  but  impossible  mission  for  love's 
high  sake. 

Tony  Holiday  believed,  as  all  the  million  other 
women  have  believed  since  time  began,  that  she 
could  save  her  lover,  loved  him  tenfold  the  more 
because  he  threw  himself  upon  her  mercy,  came 
indeed  perhaps  to  truly  love  him  for  the  first  time 
now  with  a  kind  of  consecrated  fervor  which 
belonged  all  to  the  spirit  even  as  the  love  that  had 
come  to  her  while  they  danced  had  belonged  rather 
to  the  flesh. 

And  day  by  day  Jim  Roberts  grew  sicker  and  the 
gnawing  thing  crept  up  nearer  to  his  heart.  Day 
by  day  he  gloated  over  the  goading  whips  he 
brandished  over  Alan  Massey's  head,  amused  him- 
self with  the  various  developments  it  lay  in  his 
power  to  give  to  the  situation  as  he  passed  out  of 
life. 

He  wrote  two  letters  from  his  sick  bed.  The  first 
one  was  addressed  to  Dick  Carson,  telling  the  full 
story  of  his  own  and  Alan  Massey's  share  in  the 
deliberate  defraudment  of  that  young  man  of  his 
rightful  name  and  estate.  It  pleased  him  to  read 
and  reread  this  letter  and  to  reflect  that  when  it  was 


ON  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  PRECIPICE         165 

mailed  Alan  Massey  would  drink  the  full  cup  of 
disgrace  and  exposure  while  he  who  was  infinitely 
guiltier  would  be  sleeping  very  quietly  in  a  cool 
grave  where  hate,  nor  vengeance,  nor  even  pity 
could  touch  him. 

The  other  letter,  which  like  the  first  he  kept 
unmailed,  was  a  less  honest  and  less  incriminating 
letter,  filled  with  plausible  half  truths,  telling  how- 
he  had  just  become  aware  at  last  through  coming 
into  possession  of  some  old  letters  of  the  identity  of 
the  boy  he  had  once  had  in  his  keeping  and  who  had 
run  away  from  him,  an  identity  which  he  now 
hastened  to  reveal  in  the  interests  of  tardy  justice. 
The  letter  made  no  mention  of  Alan  Massey  nor  of 
the  unlovely  bargain  he  had  driven  with  that  young 
man  as  the  price  of  silence  and  the  bliss  of 
ignorance.  It  was  addressed  to  the  lawyers  who 
handled  the  Massey  estate. 

Roberts  had  followed  up  various  trails  and  dis- 
covered that  Antoinette  Holiday  was  the  girl 
Massey  loved,  discovered  through  the  bribing  of  a 
Crest  House  servant,  that  the  young  man  they 
called  Carson  was  also  presumably  in  love  with  the 
girl  whose  family  had  befriended  him  so  generously 
in  his  need.  It  was  incredibly  good  he  thought. 
He  could  hardly  have  thought  out  a  more  diaboli- 
cally clever  plot  if  he  had  tried.  He  could  make 
Alan  Massey  writhe  trebly,  knowing  these  things. 

Pursuing  his  malignant  whim  he  wrote  to  Alan 
Massey  and  told  him  of  the  existence  of  the  two 
letters,  as  yet  unmailed,  in  his  table  drawer.  He 
made  it  clear  that  one  of  the  letters  damned  Alan 
Massey  utterly  while  the  other  only  robbed  him  of 
his  ill-gotten  fortune,  made  it  clear  also  that  he  him- 
self did  not  know  which  of  the  two  would  be  mailed 
in  the  end,  possibly  he  would  decide  it  by  a  flip  of  a 
coin.  Massey  could  only  wait  and  see  what 
happened. 


166  WILD  WINGS 


"I  suppose  you  think  the  girl  is  worth  going  to 
Hell  for,  even  if  the  money  isn't,"  he  had  written. 
"Maybe  she  is.  Some  women  are,  perhaps.  But 
don't  forget  that  if  she  loves  you,  you  will  be 
dragging  her  down  there  too.  Pretty  thought,  isn't 
it?  I  don't  mean  any  future-life  business  either. 
That's  rot.  I  heard  enough  of  that  when  I  was  a 
boy  to  sicken  me  of  it  forever.  It  is  the  here  and 
now  Hell  a  man  pays  for  his  sins  with,  and  that  is 
God's  truth,  Alan  Massey." 

And  Alan,  sitting  in  his  luxurious  studio  reading 
the  letter,  crushed  it  in  his  hands  and  groaned 
aloud.  He  needed  no  commentary  on  the  "here 
and  now  Hell"  from  Jim  Roberts.  He  was  living 
it  those  summer  days  if  ever  a  man  did. 

It  wasn't  the  money  now.  Alan  told  himself  he 
no  longer  cared  for  that,  hated  it  in  fact.  It  was 
Tony  now,  all  Tony,  and  the  horrible  fear  lest 
Roberts  betray  him  and  shut  the  gates  of  Paradise 
upon  him  forever.  Sometimes  in  his  agony  of  fear 
he  could  almost  have  been  glad  to  end  it  all  with 
one  shot  of  the  silver-mounted  automatic  he  kept 
always  near,  to  beat  Jim  Roberts  to  the  bliss  of 
oblivion  in  the  easiest  way. 

But  Alan  Massey  had  an  incorrigible  belief  in  his 
luck.  Just  as  he  had  hoped,  until  he  had  all  but 
believed,  that  his  cousin  John  was  as  dead  as  he  had 
told  that  very  person  he  was,  so  now  he  hoped 
against  all  reason  that  he  would  be  saved  at  the 
eleventh  hour,  that  Roberts  would  go  to  his  death 
carrying  with  him  the  secret  that  would  destroy 
himself  if  it  ceased  to  be  a  secret. 

Those  unmailed  letters  haunted  him,  however, 
day  and  night,  so  much  so,  in  fact,  that  he  took  a 
journey  to  Boston  one  day  and  sought  out  the  little 
cigar  store  again.  But  this  time  he  had  not 
mounted  the  stairs.  His  business  was  with  the 
black-eyed  boy.  With  one  fifty  dollar  bill  he 


ON  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  PRECIPICE        167 

bought  the  lad's  promise  to  destroy  the  letters  and 
the  packet  in  Robert's  drawer  in  the  event  of  the 
latter's  death;  secured  also  the  promise  that  if  at 
any  time  before  his  death  Roberts  gave  orders  that 
either  letter  should  be  mailed,  the  boy  would  send 
the  same  not  to  the  address  on  the  envelope  but  to 
Alan  Massey.  If  the  boy  kept  faith  with  Ms 
pledges  there  would  be  another  fifty  coming  to  him 
after  the  death  of  the  man.  He  bought  the  lad  even 
as  Roberts  had  once  bought  himself.  It  was  a 
sickening  transaction  but  it  relieved  his  mind  con- 
siderably and  catered  in  a  measure  to  that  incor- 
rigible hope  within  him. 

But  he  paid  a  price  too.  Fifty  miles  away  from 
Boston  was  Tony  Holiday  on  her  Heaven  kissing 
hill.  He  was  mad  to  go  to  her  but  dared  not,  lest 
this  fresh  corruption  in  some  way  betray  itself  to 
her  clear  gaze. 

So  he  went  back  to  New  York  without  seeing  her 
and  Tony  never  knew  he  had  been  so  near. 

And  that  night  Jim  Roberts  took  an  unexpected 
turn  for  the  worse  and  died,  foiled  of  that  last 
highly  anticipated  spice  of  malice  in  flipping  the 
coin  that  was  to  decide  Alan  Massey's  fate. 

In  the  end  the  boy  had  not  had  the  courage  to 
destroy  the  letters  a«  he  had  promised  to  do. 
Instead  he  sent  them  both,  together  with  the  packet 
of  evidence  as  to  John  Massey's  idientity,  to  Alan 
Massey. 

The  thing  was  in  Alan's  own  hands  at  last. 
Nothing  could  save  or  destroy  him  but  himself. 
And  by  a  paradox  his  salvation  depended  upon  his 
being  strong  enough  to  bring  himself  to  ruin. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IN  WHICH  PHIL  GETS  HIS  EYES  OPENED 

AT  home  on  her  Hill  Tony  Holiday  settled  down 
more  or  less  happily  after  her  eventful  sally  into  the 
great  world.  To  the  careless  observer  she  was 
quite  the  same  Tony  who  went  down  the  Hill  a  few 
weeks  earlier.  If  at  times  she  was  unusually  quiet, 
had  spells  of  sitting  very  still  with  folded  hands  and 
far  away  dreams  in  her  eyes,  if  she  crept  away  by 
herself  to  read  the  long  letters  that  came  so  often, 
from  many  addresses  but  always  in  the  same  bold, 
beautiful  script  and  to  pen  long  answers  to  these ;  if 
she  read  more  poetry  than  was  her  wont  and  sang 
love  songs  with  a  new,  exquisite,  but  rather  heart 
breaking  timbre  in  her  lovely  contralto  voice,  no 
one  paid  much  attention  to  these  signs  except  pos- 
sibly Doctor  Philip  who  saw  most  things.  He 
perceived  regretfully  that  his  little  girl  was  slip- 
ping away  from  him,  passing  through  some 
experience  that  was  by  no  means  all  joy  or  content- 
ment and  which  was  making  her  grow  up  all  too 
fast.  But  he  said  nothing,  quietly  bided  the  hour 
of  confidence  which  he  felt  sure  would  come  sooner 
or  later. 

Tony  puzzled  much  over  the  complexities  of  life 
these  days,  puzzled  over  other  things  beside  her 
own  perverse  romance.  Carlotta  too  was  much  on 
her  mind.  She  wished  she  could  wave  a  magic 
wand  and  make  things  come  right  for  these  two 
friends  of  hers  who  were  evidently  made  for  each 

168 


PHIL  GETS  HIS  EYES  OPENED  169 

other  as  Hal  had  propounded.  She  wondered  if 
Phil  were  as  unhappy  as  Carlotta  was  and  meant 
to  find  out  in  her  own  time  and  way. 

She  had  seen  almost  nothing  of  him  since  her 
return  to  the  Hill.  He  was  working  very  hard  in 
the  store  and  never  appeared  at  any  of  the  little 
dances  and  picnics  and  teas*  with  which  the 
Dunbury  younger  set  passed  away  the  summer  days 
and  nights,  and  which  Ted  and  the  twins*  and 
usually  Tony  herself  frequented.  Larry  never  did. 
He  Kated  things  of  that  sort.  But  Phil  was 
different.  He  had  always  liked  fun  and  parties  and 
had  always  been  on  hand  and  in  great  demand 
hitherto  at  every  social  function  from  a  Ladies'  Aid 
strawberry  festival  to  a  grand  Masonic  ball.  It 
wasn't  natural  for  Phil  to  shut  himself  out  of  things 
like  that.  It  was  a  bad  sign  Tony  thought. 

At  any  rate  she  determined  to  find  out  for  herself 
how  the  land  lay  if  she  could.  .Having  occasion  to 
do  some  shopping  she  marched  down  the  Hill  and 
presented  herself  at  Stuart  Lambert  and  Son's, 
demanding  to  be  served  by  no  less  a  person  than 
Philip  himself. 

"I  want  a  pair  of  black  satin  pumps  with  very 
frivolous  heels,"  she  announced.  "Produce  them 
this  instant,  slave."  She,  smiled  at  Phil  and  he 
smiled  back.  He  and  Tony  had  always  been  the 
best  of  chums. 

"Cannzy  ones?"  he  laughed.  "That's  what  one  of 
our  customers  calls  them." 

And  while  he  knelt  before  her  with  an  array  of 
shoe  boxes  around  him,  fitting  a  dainty  slipper  on 
Tony's  pretty  foot,  Tony  herself  looked  not  at  the 
slipper  but  at  Philip,  studying  his  face  shrewdly. 
He  looked  older,  graver.  There  was  less  laughter 
in  his  blue  eyes,  a  grimmer  line  about  his  young 
mouth.  Poor  Phil!  Evidently  Carlotta  wasn't 
the  only  one  who  was  paying  the  price  of  too  much 


170  WILD  WINGS 


loving.     Tony  made  up  her  mind  to  rush  in,  though 
she  knew  it  might  be  a  case  for  angel  hesitation. 

"I've  never  given  you  a  message  Hal  Underwood 
sent  you,"  she  observed  irrelevantly. 

Philip  looked  up  surprised. 

"Hal  Underwood!  What  message  did  he  send 
me?  I  hardly  know  him." 

"He  seemed  to  know  you  rather  well.  He  told  me 
to  tell  you  to  come  down  and  marry  Carlotta,  that 
you  were  the  only  man  that  could  keep  her  in  order. 
That  is  too  big,  Phil.  Try  a  smaller  one."  The 
speaker  kicked  off  the  offending  slipper.  Philip 
mechanically  picked  it  up  and  replaced  it  in  the  box. 

"That  is  rather  a  queer  message,"  he  commented. 
"I  had  an  idea  Underwood  wanted  to  marry 
Carlotta  himself.  Try  this."  He  reached  for 
another  pump.  His  eyes  wrere  lowered  so  Tony 
could  not  see  them.  She  wished  she  could. 

"He  does,"  she  said.     "She  won't  have  him." 

"Is — is  there — anybody  she  is  likely  to  have?" 
The  words  jerked  out  as  the  young  man  groped  for 
the  shoe  horn  which  was  almost  beside  his  hand  but 
which  apparently  he  did  not  see  at  all. 

"I  am  afraid  she  is  likely  to  take  Herbert  Lathrop 
unless  somebody  stops  her  by  main  force.  Why 
don't  you  play  Lochinvar  yourself,  Phil?  You 
could." 

Philip  looked  straight  up  at  Tony  then,  the 
slipper  forgotten  in  his  hand. 

"Tony,  do  you  mean  that?"  he  asked. 

"I  certainly  do.  Make  her  marry  you,  Phil. 
It  is  the  only  way  with  Carlotta." 

"I  don't  want  to  make  any  girl  marry  me,"  he 
said. 

"Oh,  hang  your  silly  pride,  Phil  Lambert! 
Carlotta  wants  to  marry  you  I  tell  you  though  she 
would  murder  me  if  she  knew  I  did  tell  you." 

"Maybe  she  does.     But  she  doesn't  want  to  live 


PHIL  GETS  HIS  EYES  OPENED  171 

in  Dunbury.  I've  good  reason  to  know  that.  We 
thrashed  it  out  rather  thoroughly  on  the  top  of 
Mount  Tom  last  June.  She  hasn't  changed  her 
mind." 

Tony  sighed.  She  was  afraid  Phil  was  right. 
Carlotta  hadn't  changed  her  mind.  Was  it  because 
she  was  afraid  she  might,  that  she  was  determining 
to  marry  Herbert? 

"And  you  can't  leave  Dunbury?"  she  asked 
soberly. 

Just  at  that  moment  Stuart  Lambert  approached, 
a  tall  fine  looking  man,  with  the  same  blue  eyes  and 
fresh  coloring  as  his  son  and  brown  hair  only 
slightly  graying  around  the  temples.  He  had  an 
air  of  vigor  and  ageless  youth.  Indeed  a  stranger 
might  easily  have  taken  the  two  men  for  brothers 
instead  of  father  and  son. 

"Hello,  Tony,  my  dear,"  he  greeted  cordially. 
"It  is  good  to  see  you  round  again.  We  have 
missed  you.  This  boy  of  mine  getting  you  what 
you  want?'7 

"He  is  trying,"  smiled  Tony.  "A  woman  doesn't 
always  know  what  she  wants,  Mr.  Lambert.  The 
store  is  wonderful  since  it  was  enlarged  and  I  see 
lots  of  other  improvements  too."  Her  eyes  swept 
her  surroundings  with  sincere  appreciation. 

"Make  your  bow  to  Phil  for  all  that.  It  is  good 
to  get  fresh  brains  into  a  business.  We  old  fogies 
need  jerking  out  of  our  ruts." 

The  older  man's  eyes  fell  upon  Phil's  bowed  head 
and  Tony  realized  how  much  it  meant  to  him  to 
have  his  son  with  him  at  last,  pulling  shoulder  to 
shoulder. 

"New  brains  nothing!"  protested  Phil.  Dad's 
got  me  skinned  going  and  coming  for  progressive- 
ness.  As  for  old  fogies  he's  the  youngest  man  I 
know.  Make  all  your  bows  to  him,  Tony.  It  is 
where  they  belong."  And  Phil  got  to  his  feet  and 


172  WILD  WINGS 


himself  made  a  solemn  obeisance  in  Stuart  Lam- 
bert's direction. 

Mr.  Lambert  chuckled. 

"Phil  was  always  a  blarney,"  he  said.  "Don't 
know  where  he  got  it.  Don't  you  believe  a  word  he 
says,  my  dear."  But  Tony  saw  he  was  immensely 
pleased  with  Phil's  tribute  for  all  that.  "How  do 
you  like  the  sign?"  he  asked. 

"Fine.  Looks  good  to  me  and  I  know  it  does  to 
you,  Mr.  Lambert." 

"Well,  rather."  The  speaker  rested  his  hand  on 
Phil's  shoulder  a  moment.  "I  tell  you  it  is  good, 
young  lady,  to  have  the  son  part  added,  worth 
waiting  for.  I'm  mighty  proud  of  that  sign. 
Between  you  and  me,  Miss  Tony,  I'm  proud  of  my 
son  too." 

"Who  is  blarneying  now?"  laughed  Phil.  "Go 
on  with  you,  Dad.  You  are  spoiling  my  sale." 

The  father  chuckled  again  and  moved  away. 
Phil  looked  down  at  the  girl. 

"I  think  your  question  is  answered.  I  can't  leave 
Dunbury,"  he  said. 

"Then  Carlotta  ought  to  come  to  you." 

"There  are  no  oughts  in  Carlotta's  bright  lexi- 
con. I  don't  blame  her,  Tony.  Dunbury  is  a  dead 
hole  from  most  points  of  view.  I  am  afraid  she 
wouldn't  be  happy  here.  You  wouldn't  be  yourself 
forever.  Bet  you  are  planning  to  get  away  right 
now." 

Tony  nodded  ruefully. 

"I  suppose  I  am,  Phil.  The  modern  young 
woman  isn't  much  to  pin  one's  faith  to  I  am  afraid. 
Do  I  get  another  slipper?  Or  is  one  enough?" 

Phil  came  back  from  his  mental  aberration  with  a 
start  and  a  grin  at  his  own  expense. 

"I  am  afraid  I  am  not  a  very  good  salesman 
today,"  he  apologized.  "Honestly  I  do  better 
usually  but  you  hit  me  in  a  vulnerable  spot." 


PHIL  GETS  HIS  EYES  OPENED     173 

"You  do  care  for  Carlotta  then?"  probed  Tony. 

"Care !  I'm  crazy  over  her.  I'd  go  on  my  hands 
and  knees  to  Crest  House  if  I  thought  I  could  get 
her  to  marry  me  by  doing  it." 

"You  would  much  better  go  by  train — the  next 
one.  That's  my  advice.  Are  you  coming  to 
Sue  Emerson's  dance?  That  is  why  I  am  buy- 
ing slippers.  You  can  dance  with  'em  if  you'll 
come." 

"Sorry.     I  don't  go  to  dances  any  more." 

"Tfiat  is  nonsense,  Phil.  It  is  the  worst  thing  in 
the  world  for  you  to  make  a  hermit  of  yourself.  No 
girl's  worth  it.  Besides  there  are  other  girls 
besides  Carlotta." 

Phil  shook  his  head  as  he  finished  replacing 
Tony's  trim  brown  oxfords. 

"Unfortunately  that  isn't  true  for  me,"  he  said 
rising.  "At  present  my  world  consists  of  my- 
self bounded,  north,  south,  east  and  west  by 
Carlotta." 

And  Tony  passing  out  under  the  sign  of 
STUART  LAMBERT  AND  SON  a  few  minutes 
later  sighed  a  little.  Here  was  Carlotta  writh  a  real 
man  for  the  taking  and  too  stubborn  and  foolish  to 
put  out  her  hand  and  here  was  herself,  Tony 
Holiday,  tying  herself  all  up  in  a  strange  snarl  for 
the  sake  of  somebody  who  wasn't  a  man  at  all  as 
Holiday  Hill  standards  ran.  What  queer  creatures 
women  were! 

Other  people  besides  Tony  wrere  inclined  to  score 
Phil's  folly  in  making  a  hermit  of  himself.  His 
sisters  attacked  him  that  very  night  on  the  subject 
of  Sue  Emerson's  dance  and  accused  him  of  being  a 
"Grumpy  Grandpa"  and  a  grouch  and  various  other 
uncomplimentary  things  when  he  announced  that 
he  wasn't  going  to  attend  the  function. 

"I'm  the  authentic  T.  B.  M.,"  he  parried  from  his 
perch  on  the  porch  railing.  "I've  cut  out  dancing." 


174  WILD  WINGS 


"More  idiot  you!"  retorted  Charley  promptly. 
"Mums,  do  tell  Phil  it  is  all  nonsense  making  such 
an  oyster  in  a  shell  of  himself." 

Mrs.  Lambert  smiled  and  looked  up  at  her  tall 
young  son,  looked  rather  hard  for  a  moment. 

"I  think  the  twins  are  right,  Phil,"  she  said. 
"You  are  working  too  hard.  You  don't  allow  your- 
self any  relaxation." 

"Oh,  yes  I  do.  Only  my  idea  of  relaxation 
doesn't  happen  to  coincide  with  the  twins.  Danc- 
ing in  this  sort  of  weather  with  your  collar 
slumping  and  the  perspiration  rolling  in  tidal 
waves  down  your  manly  brow  doesn't  strike  me  as 
being  a  particularly  desirable  diversion." 

"H-mp!"  sniffed  Charley.  "You  didn't  object  to 
dancing  last  summer  when  it  was  twice  as  hot. 
You  went  to  a  dance  almost  every  night  when 
Carlotta  was  visiting  Tony.  You  know  you  did." 

"I  wasn't  a  member  of  the  esteemed  firm  of  Stuart 
Lambert  and  Son  last  summer.  A  lily  of  the  field 
can  afford  to  dance  all  night.  I'm  a  working  man 
I'd  have  you  know." 

"Well,  I  think  you  might  come  just  this  once  to 
please  us,"  joined  in  Clare,  the  other  twin.  "You 
are  a  gorgeous  dancer,  Phil.  I'd  rather  have  a  one 
step  with  you  than  any  man  I  know."  Clare 
always  beguiled  where  Charley  bullied,  a  method 
much  more  successful  in  the  long  run  as  Charley 
sometimes  grudgingly  admitted  after  the  fact. 

Phil  smiled  now  at  pretty  Clare  and  promised  to 
think  about  it  and  the  twins  flew  off  across  the 
street  to  visit  with  Tony  and  Ruth  whom  the  whole 
Hill  adored. 

"Phil  dear,  aren't  you  happy?"  asked  Mrs. 
Lambert.  "Have  we  asked  too  much  of  you 
expecting  you  to  settle  down  at  home  with  us?" 

"Why  yes,  Mums.  I'm  all  right."  Phil  left  his 
post  on  the  rail  and  dropped  into  a  chair  beside  his 


PHIL  GETS  HIS  EYES  OPENED  175 

mother.  Perhaps  he  did  it  purposely  lest  she  see 
too  much.  "Don't  get  notions  in  your  head.  I  like 
living  in  Dunbury.  I  wouldn't  live  in  a  city  for 
anything  and  I  like  being  with  Dad  not  to  mention 
the  rest  of  you." 

Mrs.  Lambert  shifted  her  position  also.  She 
wanted  to.  see  her  son's  face;  just  as  much  as  he 
didn't  want  her  to  see  it. 

"Possibly  that  is  all  so  but .you.aren't  happy  for 
all  that.  You  can't  fool  mother  eyes,  my  dear." 

Phil  looked  straight  at  her  then  with  a  little 
rueful  smile. 

"I  reckon  I  can't,"  he  admitted.  "Very  well 
then.  I  am  not  entirely  happy  but  it  is  nobody's 
fault  and  nothing  anybody  can  help." 

"Philip,  is  it  a  girl?" 

How  they  dread  the  girl  in  their  sons'  lives — 
these  mothers!  The  very  possibility  of  her  in  the 
abstract  brings  a  shadow  across  the  path. 

"Yes,  Mums,  it  is  a  girl." 

Mrs.  Lambert  rose  and  went  over  to  where  her  son 
sat,  running  her  fingers  through  his  hair  as  she  had 
been  wont  to  do  when  the  little  boy  Phil  was  in 
trouble  of  any  sort. 

"I  am  very  sorry,  dear  boy,"  she  said.  "It  won't 
help  to  talk  about  it?'' 

"I  am  afraid  not.  Don't  worry,  Mums.  It  is 
just — well,  it  hurts  a  little  just  now  that's  all." 

She  kissed  his  forehead  and  went  back  to  her 
chair.  It  hurt  her  to  know  her  boy  was  being  hurt, 
hurt  her  almost  as  much  to  know  she  could  not  help 
him,  she  must  just  let  him  close  the  door  on  his 
grief  and  bear  it  alone. 

Yet  she  respected  his  reserve  and  loved  him  the 
better  for  it.  Phil  was  like  that  always.  He 
never  cried  out  when  he  was  hurt.  She  remem- 
bered how  long  ago  the  little  boy  Phil  had  come  to 
her  with  a  small  finger  just  released  from  a  slam- 


176  WILD  WINGS 


ming  door  that  had  crushed  it  unmercifully,  the 
tears  streaming  down  his  cheeks  but  uttering  no 
sound.  She  rcalled  another  incident  of  years  later, 
when  the  coach  had  been  obliged  to  put  some  one 
else  in  Phil's  place  on  the  team  the  last  minute  be- 
cause his  sprained  ankle  had  been  bothering.  She 
and  Stuart  had  come  on  for  the  game.  It  had  been 
a  bitter  disappointment  to  them  all.  To  the  boy  it 
had  been  little  short  of  a  tragedy.  But  he  had 
smiled  bravely  at  her  in  spite  of  the  trouble  in  his 
blue  eyes.  "Dont  mind,  Mums.  It  is  all  right," 
he  had  said  steadily.  "We've  got  to  win.  We 
can't  risk  my  darned  ankle's  flopping.  It's  the 
bleachers  for  me.  The  game's  the  thing." 

The  game  had  always  been  the  thing  for  Phil. 
Even  in  his  blundering,  willful  boyhood  he  had 
played  hard  and  played  fair  and  taken  defeat  like 
a  man  when  things  had  gone  against  him. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then  Mrs.  Lam- 
bert spoke  again. 

"Phil,  I  wish  you  would  go  to  the  dance  with  the 
girls.  It  will  please  them  and  be  good  for  you. 
You  can't  shut  yourself  away  from  everything  the 
way  you  are  doing,  if  you  are  going  to  make  Dun- 
bury  your  home.  Your  father  never  has.  He  has 
always  given  himself  freely  to  it,  worked  with  it, 
played  with  it,  made  it  a  real  part  of  himself.  You 
mustn't  start  out  by  building  a  wall  around  your- 
self." 

"Am  I  doing  that,  Mums?"  Phil's  voice  was 
sober. 

"I  am  afraid  you  are,  Phil.  It  troubles  your 
father.  He  was  so  disappointed  when  you  wouldn't 
serve  on  the  library  committee.  They  were  dis- 
appointed too.  They  didn't  expect  it  of  your 
father's  son." 

"I — I  wasn't  interested." 

"No,    you    weren't    interested.     That    was    the 


PHIL  GETS  HIS  EYES  OPENED  177 

trouble.  You  ought  to  have  been.  You  have  had 
your  college  training,  the  world  of  books  has  been 
thrown  wide  open  for  you.  You  come  back  here 
and  aren't  interested  in  seeing  that  others  less 
fortunate  get  the  right  kind  of  books  into  their 
hands  and  heads.  I  don't  want  to  preach,  dear. 
But  education  isn't  only  a  privilege.  It  is  a  re- 
sponsibility." 

"Maybe  you  are  right,  Mums.  I  didn't  think  of 
it  thai  way.  I  just  didn't  want  to  bother.  I  was — 
well,  I  was  thinking  too  much  about  myself  I  sup- 
pose." 

"Youth  is  apt  to.  There  were  other  things  too. 
When  they  asked  you  to  take  charge  of  the  Fourth 
of  July  pageant,  to  dig  up  Dunbury's  past  history 
and  make  it  live  for  us  again,  your  father  and  I  both 
thought  you  would  enjoy  it.  He  was  tremendously 
excited  about  it,  full  of  ideas  to  help.  But  the  pro- 
ject fell  through  because  nobody  would  undertake 
the  leadership.  You  were  too  busy.  Every  one 
was  too  busy." 

"But,  Mums,  I  was  busy,"  Phil  defended  himself. 
"It  is  no  end  of  a  job  to  put  things  like  that  through 
properly." 

"Most  things  worth  doing  are  no  end  of  a  job. 
Your  father  would  have  taken  it  with  all  the  rest 
he  has  on  his  hands  and  made  a  success  of  it.  But 
he  was  hurt  by  your  high  handed  refusal  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  it  and  he  let  it  go,  though  you 
know  having  Fourth  of  July  community  celebra- 
tions is  one  of  his  dearest  hobbies — always  has  been 
since  he  used  to  fight  so  hard  to  get  rid  of  the  old, 
wretched  noise,  law  breaking  and  rowdyism  kind  of 
village  celebration  yoti  and  the  other  young  Dun- 
bury  vandals  delighted  in." 

Phil  flushed  at  that.  The  point  went  home.  He 
remembered  vividly  his  boyish  self  tearing  reluc- 
tantly from  Doctor  Holiday's  fireworks  impelled 


178  WILD  WINGS 


by  an  unbearably  guilty  conscience  to  confess  to 
Stuart  Lambert  that  his  own  son  had  been  a  trans- 
gressor against  the  law.  Boy  as  he  was,  he  had 
gotten  out  of  the  interview  with  his  father  that 
night  a  glimpse  into  the  ideal  citizenship  which 
Stuart  Lambert  preached  and  lived  and  worked  for. 
He  had  understood  a  little  then.  He  understood 
better  now  having  stood  beside  his  father  man  to 
man. 

"I  am  sorry,  Mums.  I  would  have  done  the  thing 
if  I'd  known  Dad  wanted  me  to.  Why  didn't  he  say 
so?" 

Mrs.  Lambert  smiled. 

"Dad  doesn't  say  much  about  what  he  wants. 
You  will  have  to  learn  to  keep  your  eyes  open  and 
find  out  for  yourself.  I  did." 

"Any  more  black  marks  on  my  score?  I  may  as 
well  eat  the  whole  darned  pie  at  once."  Phil's 
smile  was  humorous  but  his  eyes  were  troubled.  It 
was  a  bit  hard  when  you  had  been  thinking  you  had 
played  your  part  fairly  creditably  to  discover  you 
had  been  fumbling  your  cues  wretchedly  all  along. 

"Only  one  other  thing.  We  wrere  both  immensely 
disappointed  when  you  wouldn't  take  the  scout- 
mastership  they  offered  you.  Father  believes 
tremendously  in  the  movement.  He  thinks  it  is 
going  to  be  the  making  of  the  next  generation  of 
men.  He  would  have  liked  you  to  be  a  Scoutmaster 
and  when  you  wouldn't  he  went  on  the  Scout 
Troop  Committee  himself  though  he  really  could  not 
spare  the  time." 

"I  see,"  said  Phil.  "I  guess  I've  been  pretty 
blind.  Funny  part  of  it  is  I  really  wan  fed  to  take 
the  ScoutmasteY  job  but  I  thought  Dad  would  think 
it  took  too  much  of  my  time.  Anything  more?" 
he  asked. 

"Not  a  thing.  Haven't  you  had  quite  enough  of  a 
lecture  for  once?"  his  mother  smiled  back. 


PHIL  GETS  HIS  EYES  OPENED  179 

"I  reckon  I  needed  it.  Thank  you,  Mums.  I'll 
turn  over  a  new  leaf  if  it  isn't  too  late.  I'll  go  to 
the  dance  and  I'll  ask  them  if  there  is  still  a  place 
for  me  on  the  library  committee  and  I'll  start  a 
troop  of  Scouts  myself — another  bunch  I've  had  my 
eyes  on  for  some  time." 

"That  will  please  Dad  very  much.  It  pleases  me 
too.  Boys  are  very  dear  to  my  he*art.  I  wonder  if 
you  can  guess  why,  Philip,  my  son?" 

"I  wish  I'd  been  a  better  son,  Mums.  Some  chaps 
never  seem  to  cause  their  'mothers  any  worry  or 
heart  ache.  I  wasn't  that  kind.  I  am  afraid  I  am 
not  even  yet." 

"No  son  is,  dear,  unless  there  is  something  wrong 
with  him  or  the  mother.  Mothering  means  heart 
ache  and  worries,  plus  joy  and  pride  and  the  joy  and 
pride  more  than  makes  up  for  the  rest.  It  has  for 
me  a  hundred  times  over  even  when  I  had  a  rather 
bad  little  boy  on  my  hands  and  now  I  have  a  man — 
a  man  I  am  glad  and  proud  to  call  my  son." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A  WEDDING  RING  IT  WAS  HARD  TO  REMEMBER 

IT  was  a  grilling  hot  August  afternoon.  The 
young  Holidays  were  keeping  cool  as  best  they  could 
out  in  the  yard.  Ruth  lay  in  the  canopied 
hammock  against  a  background  of  a  hedge  of  sweet 
peas,  pink  and  white  and  lavender,  looking  rather 
like  a  dainty,  frail  little  flower  herself.  Tony  in 
cool  white  was  seated  on  a  scarlet  Navajo  blanket, 
leaning  against  the  apple  tree.  Around  her  was  a 
litter  of  magazines  and  an  open  box  of  bonbons. 
Ted  was  stretched  at  his  ease  on  the  grass,  gazing 
skyward,  a  cigarette  in  his  lips,  enjoying  well- 
earned  rest  after"  toil.  Larry  occupied  the  green 
garden  bench  in  the  lee.  of  the  hammock.  He  was 
unsolaced  either  by  candy  or  smoke  and  looked 
tired  and  not  particularly  happy.  There  were 
dark  shadows  under  his  gray  eyes  which  betrayed 
that  he  was  not  getting  the  quota  of  sleep  that 
healthy  youth  demands.  His  eyes  were  downcast 
now,  apparently  absorbed  in  contemplation  of  a 
belated  dandelion  at  his  feet. 

"Ruth,  why  don't  you  come  down  to  the  dance 
with  us  tonight?"  demanded  Tony  suddenly 
dropping  her  magazine.  "You  are  well  enough  now 
and  I  know  you  would  enjoy  it.  It  is  lovely  down 
on  the  island  where  the  pavilion  is — all  quiet  and 
pine- woodsy.  You  needn't  dance  if  you  don't  want 
to.  You  could  just  lie  in  the  hammock  and  listen 
to  the  music  and  the  water.  We'd  come  and  talk 
to  you  between  dances  so  you  wouldn't  be  lone- 
some. Do  come." 

180 


A  WEDDING  RING  181 

"Oh,  I  couldn't."  Ruth's  voice  was  dismayed,  her 
blue  eyes  filled  with  alarm  at  the  suggestion. 

"Why  couldn't  you?"  persisted  Tony.  "You 
aren't  going  to  just  hide  away  forever  are  you?  It 
is  awfully  foolish,  isn't  it,  Larry?"  she  appealed  to 
her  brother. 

He  did  not  answer,  but  he  did  transfer  his  gaze 
from  the  dandelion  to  Euth  as- if  he  were  considering 
his  sister's  proposition. 

"Sure,  it's  foolish,"  Ted  replied  for  him,  sitting 
up.  "Come  on  down  and  dance  the  first  foxtrot 
with  me,  sweetness.  You'll  like  it.  Honest  you 
will,  when  you  get  started." 

"Oh,  I  couldn't"  reiterated  Ruth. 

"That  is  nonsense.  Of  course,  you  could," 
objected  Tony.  It  is  just  your  notion,  Ruthie. 
You  have  kept  away  from  people  so  long  you  are 
scared.  But  you  would  get  over  that  in  a  minute 
and  truly  it  would  be  lots  better  for  you.  Tell  her 
it  would,  Larry.  She.  is  your  patient." 

"I  don't  know  whether  it  would  or  not,"  returned 
Larry  in  his  deliberate  way,  which  occasionally 
exasperated  the  swift-minded,  impulsive  Tony. 

"Then  you  are  a  rotten  doctor,"  she  flung  back. 
"I  know  better  than  that  myself  and  Uncle  Phil 
agrees  with  me.  I  asked  him." 

"Ruth's  my  patient,  as  you  reminded  me  a 
moment  ago.  She  isn't  Uncle  Phil's."  There  was 
an  unusual  touchiness  in  the  young  doctor's  voice. 
He  was  not  professionally  aggressive  as  a  rule. 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  be  a  know-it-all,  if  she  is," 
snapped  Tony.  "Maybe  Uncle  Phil  knows  a  thing 
or  two  more  than  you  do  yet.  And  anyway  you  are 
only  a  man  and  I  am  a  girl  and  I  know  that  girls 
need  people  and  fun  and  dancing.  It  isn't  good  for 
anybody  to  hide  away  by  herself.  I  believe  you  are 
keeping  Ruth  away  from  everybody  on  purpose." 

The  hot  weather  and  other  things  were  setting 


182  WILD  WINGS 


Tony's  nerves  a  bit  on  edge.  She  felt  slightly 
belligerent  and  not  precisely  averse  to  picking  a 
quarrel  with  her  aggravatingly  quiet  brother,  if  he 
gave  her  half  an  opening. 

Larry  flushed  and  scowled  at  that  and  ordered  her 
sharply  not  to  talk  nonsense.  Whereupon  Ted 
intervened. 

"I'm  all  on  your  side,  Tony.  Of  course  it  is  bad 
for  Ruth  not  to  see  anybody  but  us.  Any  fool 
would  know  that.  Dancing  may  be  the  very  thing 
for  her  anyhow.  You  can't  tell  till  you  try. 
Maybe  when  you  are  foxtrotting  with  me,  goldi- 
locks, you'll  remember  how  it  seemed  to  have  some 
other  chap's  arm  around  you.  It  might  be  like 
laying  a  fuse." 

"I'm  glad  you  all  know  so  much  about  my 
business,"  said  Larry  testily.  "You  make  me  tired, 
both  of  you." 

"Oh,"  begged  Ruth,  her  blue  eyes  full  of  trouble. 
"Please,  please,  don't  quarrel  about  me." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  apologized  Larry.  "See 
here,  would  you  be  willing  to  try  it,  just  as  an 
experiment?  Would  you  go  down  there  for  a  little 
while  tonight  with  us?" 

The  blue  eyes  met  the  gray  ones. 

"If  you — wanted  me  to,"  faltered  the  blue-eyes. 

"Would  you  mind  it  very  much?"  Larry  leaned 
forward.  His  voice  was  low,  solicitous.  Tony, 
listening,  resented  it  a  little.  She  didn't  see  why 
Larry  had  to  keep  his  good  manners  for  somebody 
outside  the  family.  He  might  have  spoken  a  little 
more  politely  to  herself,  she  thought.  She  had  only 
been  trying  to  be  nice  to  Ruth. 

"Not — if  you  would  take  care  of  me  and  not  let 
people  talk  to  me  too  much,"  Ruth  .answered  the 
solicitous  tone. 

"I  will,"  promised  Larry.  "You  needn't  talk  to  a 
soul  if  you  don't  want  to.  I'll  ward  'em  off.  And 


A  WEDDING  RING  183 

you  can  dance  if  you  want  to — one  dance  anyway." 
"With  me,"  announced  Ted  complacently  from 
the  grass.  "My  bid  was  in  first.  Don't  you  forget, 
Miss  Peaseblossom."  Ted  had  a  multitude  of  pet 
names  for  Ruth.  They  slipped  off  his  tongue  easily, 
as  water  falling  over  a  cliff. 

"No,  with  me,"  said  his  brother  shortly. 

"Gee,  I  wish  I  were  a  doctor!  It  gives  you  a 
hideous  advantage." 

"But  I  haven't  anything  to  wear,"  exclaimed 
Ruth,  coming  next  to  the  really  sole  and  only 
supreme  woman  question. 

"We'll  fix  that  easy  as  easy,"  said  Tony, 
amicable  again  now.  "I've  a  darling  blue  organdy 
that  will  look  sweet  on  you — just  the  color  of  your 
eyes.  Don't  you  worry  a  minute,  honey.  Your 
fairy  godmother  will  see  to  all  that.  All  I  ask  is 
that  you  won't  let  that  old  ogre  of  an  M.  D.  change 
his  mind  and  say  you  can't  go.  It  isn't  good  for 
Larry  to  obey  him  so  meekly.  He  is  getting  to  be 
a  regular  tyrant." 

A  moment  later  Doctor  Holiday  joined  the  group, 
dropped  on  the  bench  beside  Larry  and  was 
informed  by  Tony  that  Ruth  was  to  go  on  an 
adventure  down  the  Hill;  to  Sue  Emerson's  dance 
in  fact. 

"Isn't  that  great?"  she  demanded. 

"Superb,"  he  teased.  Then  he  smiled  approval 
at  Ruth.  "Good  idea,  Larry,"  he  added  to  his 
nephew.  "Glad  you  thought  of  it." 

"I  didn't  think  of  it.  Tony  did.  You  really 
approve?"  The  gray  eyes  were  a  little  anxious. 
Larry  was  by  no  means  a  know-it-all  doctor,  as  his 
sister  accused  him.  He  had  too  little  rather  than 
too  much  confidence  in  his  own  judgment  in  fact. 

"I  certainly  do.  Go  to  it,  little  lady.  May  be  the 
best  medicine  in  the  world  for  you." 

"Now  you  are  talking,"  exulted  Ted.     "That's 


184  WILD  WINGS 


what  Tony  and  I  said  and  Larry  wanted  to  execute 
us  on  the  spot  for  daring  to  have  an  opinion  at  all." 

"Scare  you  much  to  think  of  it?"  Doctor 
Holiday  asked  Ruth,  prudently  ignoring  this  last 
sally. 

"A  good  deal,"  sighed  Ruth.  "But  I'll  try  not  to 
be  too  much  scared  if  Larry  will  go  too  and  not  let 
people  ask  questions." 

The  young  doctor  had  long  since  become  Larry  to 
Ruth.  It  was  too  confusing  talking  about  two 
Doctor  Holidays.  Everybody  in  Dunbury  said 
Larry  or  Doctor  Larry  or  at  most,  respectfully, 
Doctor  Laurence. 

"I'll  let  nobody  talk  to  you  but  myself,"  said 
Larry. 

"There  you  are !"  flashed  Tony.  "You  might  just 
as  well  keep  her  penned  up  here  in  the  yard.  You 
want  to  keep  her  all  to  yourself." 

She  didn't  mean  anything  in  particular,  only  to 
be  a  little  disagreeable,  to  pay  Larry  back  for  being 
so  snappy.  But  to  her  amazement  Ruth  was 
suddenly  blushing  a  lovely  but  startling  blush  and 
Larry  was  bending  over  to  examine  the  hammock- 
hook  in  obvious  confusion. 

"Good  gracious!"  she  thought  in  consternation. 
"Is  that  what's  up?  It  can't  be.  I'm  just 
imagining  it.  Larry  wouldn't  fall  in  love  with  any 
one  who  wore  a  wedding  ring.  He  mustn't." 

But  she  knew  in  her  heart  that  whether  Larry 
must  or  must  not  he  had.  A  thousand  signs 
betrayed  the  truth  now  that  her  eyes  were  open. 
Poor  Larry!  No  wonder  he  was  cross  and  unlike 
himself.  And  Ruth  was  so  sweet — just  the  girl  for 
him.  And  poor  Uncle  Phil!  She  herself  was 
hurting  him  dreadfully  keeping  her  secret  about 
Alan  and  nobody  knew  what  Ted  had  up  his  sleeve 
under  his  cloak  of  incredible  virtue.  And  now  here 
was  Larry  with  a  worse  complication  still.  Oh 


A  WEDDING  RING  185 

dear!  Would  the  three  of  them  ever  stop  getting 
into  scrapes  as.  long  as  they  lived?  It  was  bad 
enough  when  they  were  children.  It  was  infinitely 
worse  now  they  were  grown  up  and  the  scrapes 
were  so  horribly  serious. 

"I  suppose  you  can't  tear  yourself  away  from 
your  studies  to  attend  a  mere  dance?"  Doctor 
Holiday  was  asking  of  his  younger  nephew  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  eyes  when  Tony  recovered  enough  to 
listen  again. 

Ted  sent  his  cigarette  stub  careening  off  into  the 
shrubbery  and  grinned  back  at  his  uncle,  a  grin  half 
merry,  half  defiant. 

"Like  fun,  I  can't !"  he  ejaculated.  "I'm  a  union 
man,  I  am.  I've  done  my  stunt  for  the  day.  If 
anybody  thinks  I'm  going  to  stick  my  nose  in 
between  the  covers  of  a  book  before  nine  A.  M. 
tomorrow  he  has  a  whole  orchard  of  brand  new 
little  thinks  growing  up  to  stub  his  toes  on,  that's 
all." 

"So  the  student  life  doesn't  improve  with 
intimate  acquaintance?"  The  doctor's  voice  was 
still  teasing,  but  there  was  more  than  teasing  be- 
hind his  questions.  He  was  really  interested  in 
his  nephew's  psychology. 

"Not  a  da — ahem — darling  bit.  If  I  had  my 
way  every  book  in  existence  would  be  placed  on  a 
huge  funeral  pyre  and  conflagrated  instantly. 
Moreover,  it  wrould  be  a  criminal  offence  punishable 
by  the  death  sentence  for  any  person  to  bring 
another  of  the  infernal  nuisances  into  the  world. 
That  is  my  private  opinion  publicly  expressed."  So 
saying  Ted  picked  himself  up  from  the  grass  and 
sauntered  off  toward  the  house. 

His  uncle  chuckled.  He  was  sorry  the  boy  did 
not  take  more  cordially  to  books,  since  it  looked  as 
if  there  were  a  good  two  years  of  them  ahead  at  the 
least.  But  he  liked  the  honesty  that  would  not 


186  WILD  WINGS 


pretend  to  anything  it  did  not  feel,  and  he  liked 
even  better  the  spirit  that  had  kept  the  lad  true  to 
his  pledge  of  honest  work  without  a  squirm  or 
grumble  through  all  these  weeks  of  grilling  summer 
weather  when  sustained  effort  of  any  sort,  partic- 
ularly mental  effort,  was  undoubtedly  a  weariness 
and  abomination  to  flesh  and  soul,  to  his  restless, 
volatile,  ease-addicted,  liberty  loving  young  ward. 
The  boy  had  certainly  shown  more  grit  and  grace 
than  he  had  credited  him  with  possessing. 

The  village  clock  struck  six.  Tony  sprang  up 
from  her  blanket  and  began  to  gather  up  her 
possessions. 

"I  never  get  over  a  scared,  going-to-be-scolded 
feeling  running  down  my  spine  when  the  clock 
strikes  and  I'm  not  ready  for  supper,"  she  said. 
"Poor  dear  Granny!  She  certainly  worked  hard 
trying  to  make  truly  proper  persons  out  of  us  wild 
Arabs.  It  isn't  her  fault  if  she  didn't  succeed,  is  it 
Larry?"  She  smiled  at  her  brother — a  smile  that 
meant  in  Tony  language  "I  am  sorry  I  was  cross. 
Let's  make  up." 

He  smiled  back  in  the  same  spirit.  He  rose 
taking  the  rug  and  magazines  from  his  sister's  hand 
and  walked  with  her  toward  the  house. 

Ruth  sat  up  in  her  hammock  and  smoothed  her 
disarrayed  blonde  hair. 

"I  am  glad  you  are  going  down  the  Hill,"  said  the 
doctor  to  her.  "It  is  a  fine  idea,  little  lady.  Do 
you  lots  of  good." 

"Doctor  Holiday,  I  think  I  ought  to  go  away," 
announced  Ruth  suddenly.  "I  am  perfectly  well 
now,  and  there  is  no  reason  why  I  should  stay." 

"Tired  of  us?" 

"Oh  no!  I  could  never  be  that.  I  love  it  here 
and  love  all  of  you.  But  after  all  I  am  only  a 
stranger." 

"Not  to  us,  Ruthie.     Listen.     I  would  like  to 


A  WEDDING  RING  187 

explain  how  I  feel  about  this,  not  from  your  point  of 
view  but  from  ours." 

Tony  would  be  going  away  soon.  They  needed  a 
home  daughter  very  much,  needed  Ruth  particu- 
larly as  she  had  such  a  wonderful  way  with  the 
children,  who  adored  her,  and  because  Granny 
loved  her  so  well,  though  she  did  not  love  many 
people  who  were  not  Holidays.  And  he  and  Larry 
needed  her  good  fairy  ministrations.  They  had  not 
been  unmindful,  though  perhaps  manlike  they  had 
not  expressed  their  appreciation  of  the  way  fresh 
flowers  found  their  way  to  the  offices  daily,  and 
they  wtere  kept  from  being  snowed  under  by  the 
newspapers  of  yester  week.  In  short  Doctor  Holi- 
day made  it  very  clear  that,  if  Ruth  cared  to  stay 
she  was  wanted  and  needed  very  much  in  the  House 
on  the  Hill.  And  Ruth  touched  and  grateful  and 
happy  promised  to  remain. 

"If  you  think  it  is  all  right—  she  added 
with  rather  sudden  blush,  "for  me  to  stay  when 
I  am  married  or  not  married  and  don't  know 
which." 

Whereupon  Doctor  Holiday,  who  happened  not  to 
observe  the  blush,  remarked  that  he  couldn't  see 
what  that  had  to  do  with  it.  Anyway  she  seemed 
like  such  a  child  to  them  that  they  hardly 
remembered  the  wedding  ring  at  all. 

Ruth  blushed  again  at  that  and  wished  she  dared 
confess  that  she  was  afraid  the  wedding  ring  had  a 
good  deal  to  do  with  the  situation  in  the  eyes  of  one 
Holiday  at  least.  But  she  could  not  bring  herself 
to  speak  the  fatal  word  which  might  banish  her 
from  the  dear  Hill  and  from  Larry,  who  had  come 
to  be  even  dearer. 

A  dozen  times,  while  she  was  dressing  for  the 
dance  later,  Ruth  felt  like  crying  out  to  Tony  in  the 
next  room  that  she  could  not  go,  that  she  dared  not 
face  strangers,  that  it  was  too  hard.  But  she  set 


188  WILD  WINGS 


her  lips  firmly  and  did  nothing  of  the  sort.  Larry 
wanted  her  to  do  it.  She  wouldn't  disappojnt  him 
if  it  killed  her. 

Oh  dear !  Why  did  she  always  have  to  do  every- 
thing as  a  case,  never  just  as  a  girl.  She  couldn't 
even  be  natural  as  a  girl.  She  had  to  be  maybe 
married.  She  hated  the  ring  which  seemed  to  her  a 
symbol  of  bondage  to  a  past  that  was  dead  and  yet 
still  clutched  her  with  cold  hands.  She  had  a 
childish  impulse  to  fling  the  ring  out  of  the  window 
where  she  could  never — never  see  it  again.  If  it 
wasn't  for  the  ring — 

She  interrupted  her  own  thoughts,  blushing  hotly 
again.  She  knew  she  had  meant  to  go  on,  "If  it 
were  not  for  the  ring  she  could  marry  Larry 
Holiday."  She  mustn't  think  about  that.  She 
must  not  forget  the  ring,  nor  let  Larry  forget  it. 
She  must  not  let  him  love  her.  It  was  a  terrible 
thing  she  was  doing.  He  was  unhappy — dreadfully 
unhappy  and  it  was  all  her  fault.  And  by  and  by 
they  would  all  see  it.  Tony  had  seen  it  today,  she 
was  almost  sure.  And  Doctor  Holiday  would  see 
it.  He  saw  so  much  it  was  a  wonder  he  had  not 
seen  it  long  before  this.  They  would  hate  her  for 
hurting  Larry  and  spoiling  his  life.  She  could  not 
bear  to  have  them  hate  her  when  she  loved  them  so 
and  they  had  been  so  kind  and  good  to  her.  She 
must  go  away.  She  must.  Maybe  Larry  would 
forget  her  if  she  wasn't  always  there  right  under  his 
eyes. 

But  how  could  she  go?  Doctor  Philip  would 
think  it  queer  and  ungrateful  of  her  after  she  had 
promised  to  stay.  How  could  she  desert  him  and 
the  children  and  dear  Granny?  And  if  she  went 
what  could  she  do?  What  use  was  she  anyway  but 
to  be  a  trouble  and  a  burden  to  everybody?  It 
would  have  been  better,  much  better,  if  Larry  had 
left  her  to  die  in  the  wreck. 


A  WEDDING  RING  189 

Why  didn't  Geoffrey  Annersley  come  and  get  her, 
if  there  was  a  Geoffrey  Annersley?  She  knew  she 
would  hate  him,  but  she  wished  he  would  come  for 
all  that.  Anything  was  better  than  making  Larry 
suffer,  making  all  the  Holidays  suffer  through  him. 
Oh  why  hadn't  she  died,  why  hadn't  she? 

But  in  her  heart  Euth  knew  she  did  not  want  to 
die.  She  wanted  to  live.  She  wanted  life  and  love 
and  happiness  and  Larry  Holiday. 

And  then  Tony  stood  on  the  threshold,  smiling 
friendly  encouragement. 

"Ready,  hon?  Oh,  you  look  sweet!  That  blue 
is  lovely  for  you.  It  never  suited  me  at  all.  Blue 
is  angel  color  and  I  have  too  much — well,  of  the 
other  thing  in  my  composition  to  wear  it.  Come 
on.  The  boys  have  been  whistling  impatience  for 
half  an  hour  and  I  do_n't  want  to  scare  Larry  out  of 
going.  It  is  the  first  function  he  has  condescended 
to  attend  in  a  blue  moon." 

On  the*  porch  Ted  and  Larry  waited,  two  tall, 
sturdy,  well-groomed,  fine-looking  youths,  bearing 
the  indefinable  stamp  of  good  birth  and  breeding, 
the  inheritance  of  a  long  line  of  clean  strong  men 
and  gentle  women — the  kind  of  thing  not  forged  in 
one  generation  but  in  many. 

They  both  rose  as  the  girls  appeared.  Larry 
crossed  over  to  Ruth.  His  quick  gaze  took  in  her 
nervousness  and  trouble  of  mind. 

"Are  you  all  right,  Ruth?  You  mustn't  let  us 
bully  you  into  going  if  you  really  don't  want  to." 

"No,  I  am  all  right.  I  do  want  to — with  you," 
she  added  softly. 

"We'll  all  go  over  in  the  launch,"  announced  Ted, 
but  Larry  interposed  the  fact  that  he  and  Ruth  were 
going  in  the  canoe.  Ruth  would  get  too  tired  if  she 
got  into  a  crowd. 

"More  professional  graft,"  complained  Ted.  He 
was  only  joking  but  Tony  with  her  sharpened  sight 


190  WILD  WINGS 


knew  that  it  was  thin  ice  for  Larry  and  suspected  he 
had  non-professional  reasons  for  wanting  Ruth 
alone  in  the  canoe  with  him  that  night.  Poor 
Larry!  It  was  all  a  horrible  tangle,  just  as  her 
affair  with  Alan  was. 

It  was  a  night  made  for  lovers,  still  and  starry. 
Soft  little  breezes  came  tiptoeing  along  the  water 
from  fragrant  nooks  ashore  and  stopped  in  their 
course  to  kiss  Ruth's  face  as  she  lay  content  and 
lovely  among  the  scarlet  cushions,  reading  the 
eloquent  message  of  Larry  Holiday's  gray  eyes. 

They  did  not  talk  much.  They  were  both  a  little 
afraid  of  words.  They  felt  as  if  they  could  go  on 
riding  in  perfect  safety  along  the  edge  of  the 
precipice  so  long  as  neither  looked  over  or  admit- 
ted out  loud  that  there  was  a  precipice. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A  YOUNG  MAN  IN  LOVE 

TIJE  dance  was  well  in  progress  when  Larry  and 
Ruth  arrived.  The  latter  was  greeted  cordially  and 
not  too  impressively  by  gay  little  Sue  Emerson, 
their  hostess,  and  her  friends.  Ruth  was  ensconced 
comfortably  in  a  big  chair  where  she  could  watch 
the  dancers  and  talk  as  much  or  little  as 
she  pleased.  Everybody  was  so  pleasant  and 
natural  and  uncurious  that  she  did  not  feel 
frightened  or  strange  at  all,  and  really  enjoyed  the 
little  court  she  held  between  dances.  Pretty  girls 
and  pleasant  lads  came  to  talk  with  her,  the  latter 
besieging  her  with  invitations  to  dance  which  she 
refused  so  sweetly  that  they  found  the  little  Goldi- 
locks more  charming  than  ever  for  her  very  denial. 

They  rallied  Larry  however  on  his  rigorous 
dragonship  and  finally  Ruth  herself  dismissed  him 
to  dance  with  his  hostess  as  a  proper  guest  should. 
She  never  meant  he  must  stick  to  her  every  moment 
anyway.  That  was  absurd.  He  rose  to  obey 
reluctantly ;  but  paused  to  ask  if  she  wouldn't  dance 
with  him  just  once.  No,  she  couldn't — didn't  even 
know  whether  she  could.  He  mustn't  try  to  make 
her.  And  seeing  she  was  in  earnest,  Larry  left  her. 
But  Ted  came  skating  down  the  floor  to  her  and  he 
begged  for  just  one  dance. 

"Oh,  I  couldn't,  Ted,  truly  I  couldn't,"  she  denied. 

But  obeying  a  sudden  impulse  Ted  had  swooped 
down  upon  her,  picked  her  up  and  before  she  really 
knew  what  was  happening  she  had  slid  into  step 

191 


192  WILD  WINGS 


with  him  and  was  whirling  off  down  the  floor  in  his 
arms. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you,  sweetness?''  he  exulted.  "Of 
course  you  can  dance.  What  fairy  can't?  Tired?' 
He  bent  over  to  ask  with  the  instinctive  gentleness 
that  was  in  all  Holiday  men. 

Euth  shook  her  head.  She  was  exhilarated,  ex- 
cited, tense,  happy.  She  could  dance — she  could 
It  was  as  easy  and  natural  as  breathing.  She  did 
not  want  to  stop.  She  wanted  to  go  on  and  on. 
Then  suddenly  something  snapped.  They  came  op- 
posite Sue  and  Larry.  The  former  called  a  gay 
greeting  and  approval.  Larry  said  nothing.  His 
face  was  dead  white,  his  gray  eyes  black  with  anger. 
Both  Ted  and  Kuth  saw  and  understood  and 
the  lilt  went  out  of  the  dance  for  both  of  them. 

"Oh  Lord!"  groaned  Ted.  "Now  I've  done  it. 
I'm  sorry,  Ruth.  I  didn't  suppose  the  old  man 
would  care.  Don't  see  why  he  should  if  you  are 
willing.  Come  on,  just  one  more  round  before  the 
music  stops  and  we're  both  beheaded." 

But  Ruth  shook  her  head.  There  was  no  more 
joy  for  her  after  that  one  glimpse  of  Larry's  face. 
"Take  me  to  a  seat,  Ted,  please.  I'm  tired." 
He  obeyed  and  she  sank  down  in  the  chair,  white 
and  trembling,  utterly  exhausted.  She  was  hurt 
and  aching  through  and  through.  How  could  she? 
How  could  she  have  done  that  to  Lariy  when  he 
loved  her  so?  How  could  she  have  let  Ted  make  her 
dance  with  him  when  she  had  refused  to  dance  with 
Larry?  No  wonder  he  was  angry.  It  was  terrible 
— cruel. 

But  he  mustn't  make  a  scene  with  Ted.  He 
mustn't.  She  cast  an  apprehensive  glance  around 
the  room.  Larry  was  invisible.  A  forlornness 
came  over  her,  a  despair  such  as  she  had  never  ex- 
perienced even  in  that  dreadful  time  after  the 
wreck  when  she  realized  she  had  forgotten  every- 


A  YOUNG  MAN  IN  LOVE  193 

thing.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  sinking  down,  down 
in  a  fearful  black  sea  and  that  there  was  no  help 
for  her  anywhere.  Larry  had  deserted  her.  Would 
he  never  come  back? 

In  a  minute  Tony  and  the  others  were  beside  her, 
full  of  sympathetic  questions.  How  had  it  seemed 
to  dance  again?  Wasn't  it  great  to  find  she  could 
still  do  it?  How  had  she  dared  to  do  it  while  Larry 
was  off  guard?  Why  wouldn't  she,  couldn't  she 
dance- with  this  one  or  that  one  if  she  could  dance 
with  Ted  Holiday?  But  they  were  quick  to  see  she 
was  really  tired  and  troubled  and  soon  left  her  alone 
to  Tony's  ministrations. 

"Ruth,  what  is  the  trouble?  Where  is  Larry? 
And  Ted  is  gone,  too.  What  happened?"  Tony's 
voice  was  anxious.  She  hadn't  seen  Larry's  face, 
but  she  knew  Larry  and  could  guess  at  the  rest. 

"Ted  made  me  dance  with  him.  I  didn't  mean  to. 
But  when  we  got  started  I  couldn't  bear  to  stop,  it 
was  so  wonderful  to  do  it  and  to  find  I  could.  I — 
am  afraid  Larry  didn't  like  it." 

"I  presume  he  didn't,''  said  Larry's  sister  drily. 
"Let  him  be  angry  if  he  wants  to  be  such  a  silly.  It 
was  quite  all  right,  Ruthie.  Ted  has  just  as  much 
right  to  dance  with  you  as  Larry  has." 

"I  am  afraid  Larry  doesn't  think  so  and  I  don't 
think  so  either." 

Tony  squeezed  the  other  girl's  hand. 

"Never  mind,  honey.  You  mustn't  take  it  like 
that.  You  are  all  of  a  tremble.  Larry  has  a  fear- 
ful temper,  but  he  will  hang  on  to  it  for  your  sake  if 
for  no  other  reason.  He  won't  really  quarrel  with 
Ted.  He  never  does  any  more.  And  he  won't  say  a 
word  to  you." 

"I'd  rather  he  would,"  sighed  Ruth.  "You  are  all 
so  good  to  me  and  I — am  making  a  dreadful  lot  of 
trouble  for  you  all  the  time,  though  I  don't  -mean  to 
and  I  love  you  so." 


194  WILD  WINGS 


"It  isn't  your  fault,  Kuthie,  not  a  single  speck  of 
it.  Oh,  yes.  I  mean  just  what  you  mean.  Not 
simply  Larry's  being  so  foolish  as  to  lose  his  temper 
about  this  little  thing,  but  the  whole  big  thing  of 
your  caring  for  each  other.  It  is  all  hard  and 
mixed  up  and  troublesome;  but  you  are  not  to 
blame,  and  Larry  isn't  to  blame,  and  it  will  all 
come  out  right  somehow.  It  has  to." 

As  soon  as  Ted  had  assured  himself  that  Ruth  was 
all  right  in  his  sister's  charge  he  had  looked  about 
for  Larry.  Sue  was  perched  on  a  table  eating 
marshmallows  she  had  purloined  from  somewhere 
with  Phil  Lambert  beside  her,  but  there  was  no  Lar- 
ry to  be  seen. 

Ted  stepped  outside  the  pavilion.  He  was  hon- 
estly sorry  his  brother  was  hurt  and  angry.  He 
realized  too  late  that  maybe  he  hadn't  behaved  quite 
fairly  or  wisely  in  capturing  Ruth  like  that,  though 
he  hadn't  meant  any  harm,  and  had  had  not  the 
faintest  idea  Larry  would  really  care,  care  enough 
to  be  angry  as  Ted  had  not  seen  him  for  many  a  long 
day.  Larry's  temper  had  once  been  one  of  the  most 
active  of  the  family  skeletons.  It  had  not  risen 
easily,  but  when  it  did  woe  betide  whatever  or 
whomever  it  met  in  collision.  By  comparison  with 
Larry's  rare  outbursts  of  rage  Tony's  frequent  ebul- 
litions were  as  summer  zephyrs  to  whirlwinds. 

But  that  was  long  past  history.  Larry  had 
worked  manfully  to  conquer  his  familiar  demon  and 
had  so  far  succeeded  that  sunny  Ted  had  all  but 
forgotten  the  demon  ever  existed.  But  he  remem- 
bered now,  had  remembered  with  consternation 
when  he  saw  the  black  passion  in  the  other's  face 
as  they  met  on  the  floor  of  the  dance  hall. 

Puzzled  and  anxious  he  stared  down  the  slope  to- 
ward the  water.  Larry  was  just  stepping  into  the 
canoe.  Was  he  going  home,  leaving  Ruth  to  the 
mercies  of  the  rest  of  them,  or  was  he  just  going  off 


A  YOUNG  MAN  IN  LOVE  195 

temporarily  by  himself  to  fight  his  temper  to  a  finish 
as  he  had  been  accustomed  to  do  long  ago  when  he 
had  learned  to  be  afraid  and  ashamed  of  giving  into 
it?  Ted  hesitated  a  moment,  debating  whether  to 
call  him  back  and  get  the  row  over,  if  row  there  was 
to  be,  or  to  let  him  get  away  by  himself  as  he  prob- 
ably desired. 

"Hang  it !  It's  my  fault.  I  can't  let  him  go  off 
like  that.  It  just  about  kills  him  to  take  it  out  of 
himself  that  way.  I'd  rather  he'd  take  it  out  of 
me." 

With  which  conclusion  Ted  shot  down  the  bank 
whistling  softly  the  old  Holiday  Hill  call,  the  one 
Dick  had  used  that  day  on  the  campus  to  summon 
himself  to  the  news  that  maybe  Larry  was  killed. 

Larry  did  not  turn.  Ted  reached  the  shore  with 
one  stride. 

"Larry,"  he  called.     "I  say,  Larry." 

No  answer.  The  older  lad  picked  up  the  paddle, 
prepared  grimly  to  push  off,  deaf,  to  all  intents  and 
purposes  to  the  appeal  in  the  younger  one's  voice. 

But  Ted  Holiday  was  not  an  easily  daunted  per- 
son. With  one  flying  leap  he  landed  in  the  canoe, 
all  but  upsetting  the  craft  in  his  sudden  descent 
upon  it. 

The  two  youths  faced  each  other.  Larry  was 
still  white,  and  his  sombre  eyes  blazed  with  half 
subdued  fires.  He  looked  anything  but  hospitable 
to  advances,  however  well  meant. 

"Better  quit,"  he  advised  slowly  in  a  queer,  quiet 
voice  which  Ted  knew  was  quiet  only  because  Larry 
was  making  it  so  by  a  mighty  effort  of  will.  "I'm 
not  responsible  just  now.  We'll  both  be  sorry  if 
you  don't  leave  me  alone." 

"I  won't  quit,  Larry.  I  can't.  It  was  my  fault. 
Confound  it,  old  man!  Please  listen.  I  didn't' 
mean  to  make  you  mad.  Come  ashore  and  punch 
my  fool  head  if  it  will  make  you  feel  any  better." 


196  WILD  WINGS 


Still  Larry  said  nothing,  just  sat  hunched  in  a 
heap,  running  his  fingers  over  the  handle  of  the  pad- 
dle. He  no  longer  even  looked  at  Ted.  His  mouth 
was  set  at  its  stubbornest. 

Ted  rushed  on,  desperately  in  earnest,  entirely 
sincere  in  his  willingness  to  undergo  any  punish- 
ment, himself,  to  help  Larry. 

"Honest,  I  didn't  mean  to  make  trouble,"  he 
pleaded.  "I  just  picked  her  up  and  made  her  dance 
on  impulse,  though  she  told  me  she  wouldn't  and 
couldn't.  I  never  thought  for  a  minute  you  would 
care.  Maybe  it  was  a  mean  trick.  I  can  see  it 
might  have  looked  so,  but  I  didn't  intend  it  that 
way.  Gee,  Larry!  Say  something.  Don't  swal- 
low it  all  like  that.  Get  it  out  of  your  system.  I'd 
rather  you'd  give  me  a  dozen  black  eyes  than  sit 
still  and  feel  like  the  devil." 

Larry  looked  up  then.  His  face  relaxed  its  stern- 
ness a  little.  Even  the  hottest  blaze  of  wrath  could 
not  burn  quite  so  fiercely  when  exposed  to  a  gener- 
ous penitence  like  his  young  brother's.  He  under- 
stood Ted  was  working  hard  not  only  to  make  peace 
but  to  spare  himself  the  sharp  battle  with  the  demon 
which,  as  none  knew  better  that  Larry  Holiday,  did, 
indeed,  half  kill. 

"Cut  it,  Ted,"  he  ordered  grimly.  "  'Nough  said. 
I  haven't  the  slightest  desire  to  give  you  even  one 
black  eye  at  present,  though  I  may  as  well  admit  if 
you  had  been  in  my  hands  five  minutes  ago  some- 
thing would  have  smashed." 

"Don't  I  know  it?"  Ted  grinned  a  little.  "Gee, 
I  thought  my  hour  had  struck !" 

"What  made  you  come  after  me  then?" 

Ted's  grin  faded. 

"You  know  why  I  came,  old  man.  You  know  I'd 
let  you  pommel  my  head  off  any  time  if  it  could 
help  you  anyhow.  Besides  it  was  my  fault  as  I  told 


A  YOUNG  MAN  IN  LOVE  197 

you.  I  didn't  mean  to  be  mean.  I'll  do  any  pen- 
ance you  say." 

Larry  picked  up  the  paddle. 

"Your  penance  is  to  let  me  absolutely  alone  for 
fifteen  minutes.  You  had  better  go  ashore  though. 
You  will  miss  a  lot  of  dances." 

"Hang  the  dances!     I'm  staying." 

Ted  settled  down  among  the  cushions  against 
which  Ruth's  blonde  head  had  nestled  a  few  hours 
ago.  He  took  out  his  watch,  struck  a  match,  looked 
at  the  time,  lit  a  cigarette  with  the  same  match,  re- 
placed the  watch  and  relapsed  into  silence. 

The  canoe  shot  down  the  lake  impelled  by  long, 
fierce  strokes.  Larry  was  working  off  the  demon. 
Far  away  the  rhythmic  beat  of  dance  music  reached 
them  faintly.  Now  and  then  a  fish  leaped  and 
splashed  or  a  bull  frog  bellowed  his  hoarse  "Better 
go  home"  into  the  silence.  Otherwise  there  was 
no  sound  save  the  steady  ripple  of  the  water  under 
the  canoe. 

Presently  Ted  finished  his  cigarette,  sent  its  still 
ruddy  remains  flashing  off  into  the  lake  where  it  fell 
with  a  soft  hiss,  took  out  his  watch  again,  lit  an- 
other match,  considered  the  time,  subtracted 
gravely,  looked  up  and  announced  "Time's  up, 
Larry." 

Larry  laid  down  the  paddle  and  a  slow  reluctant 
smile  played  around  the  corners  of  his  mouth, 
though  there  was  sharp  distress  still  in  his  eyes. 
He  loathed  losing  his  temper  like  that.  It  sickened 
him,  filled  him  with  spiritual  nausea,  a  profound 
disgust  for  himself  and  his  mastering  weakness. 

"I've  been  a  fool,  kid,"  he  admitted.  "I'm  all 
right  now.  You  were  a. trump  to  stand  by  me.  I 
appreciate  it." 

"Don't  mention  it,"  nonchalantly  from  Ted 
"Going  back  to  the  pavilion?" 


198  WILD  WINGS 


His  brother  nodded,  resumed  the  paddle  and 
again  the  canoe  shot  through  the  waters,  this  time 
toward  the  music  instead  of  away  from  it. 

"I  suppose  you  know  why  your  dancing  with 
Kuth  made  me  go  savage,"  said  Larry  after  a  few 
moments  of  silence. 

"Damned  if  I  do,"  said  Ted  cheerfully.  "It 
doesn't  matter.  I  don't  need  a  glossary  and  ap 
pendix.  Suit  yourself  as  to  the  explanations.  I 
put  my  foot  in  it.  I've  apologized.  That  is  the 
end  of  it  so  far  as  I  am  concerned  unless  you  want 
to  say  something  more  yourself.  You  don't  have 
to  you  know." 

"It  was  plain,  fool  movie  stuff  jealousy.  That  is 
the  sum  and  substance  of  it.  I'm  in  love  with  her. 
I  couldn't  stand  her  dancing  with  you  when  she  had 
refused  me.  I  could  almost  have  killed  you  for  a 
minute.  I  am  ashamed  but  I  couldn't  help  it. 
That  is  the  way  it  was.  Now — forget  it,  please." 

Ted  swallowed  hard  and  pulled  his  forelock  in 
genuine  perturbation. 

"Good  Lord,  Larry!"  he  blurted.     "I—" 

His  brother  held  up  an  imperious  warning  hand. 

"I  said  'forget  it.'  Don't  make  me  want  to  dump 
you  now,  after  coming  through  the  rest." 

Ted  saluted  promptly. 

"Ay,  ay,  sir!  It's  forgot.  Only  perhaps  you'll 
let  me  apologize  again,  underscored,  now  I  under- 
stand. Honest,  I'm  no  end  sorry,  Larry." 

The  other  nodded  acceptance  of  the  underscored 
apology  and  again  silence  had  its  way. 

As  they  landed  Ted  fastened  the  canoe  and  for  a 
moment  the  two  brothers  stood  side  by  side  in  the 
starlight.  Larry  put  out  his  hand.  Ted  took  it. 
Their  eyes  met,  said  more  than  any  words  could 
have  expressed. 

"Thank  you,  Ted.  You've  been  great — helped  a 
lot." 


A  YOUNG  MAN  IN  LOVE  199 

Larry's  voice  was  a  little  unsteady,  his  eyes  were 
full  of  trouble  and  shame. 

"Ought  to,  after  starting  the  conflagration,"  said 
Ted.  "I'll  attend  to  the  general  explanations. 
You  go  to  Ruth." 

More  than  one  person  had  wondered  at  the  mys- 
terious disappearance  of  the  two  Holidays.  It  is 
quite  usual,  and  far  from  unexpected,  when  two 
young  persons  of  the  opposite  sex  drift  off  some- 
where under  the  stars  on  a  summer  night  without 
giving  any  particular  account  of  themselves;  but 
one  scarcely  looks  for  that  sort  of  social — or  un- 
social— eccentricity  from  two  youths,  especially 
two  brothers.  Nobody  but  Ruth  and  Tony,  and 
possibly  shrewd-eyed  Sue,  suspected  a  quarrel,  but 
everybody  was  curious  and  ready  to  burst  into  in- 
terrogation upon  the  simultaneous  return  of  the 
two  young  men  which  was  quite  as  sudden  as  their 
vanishing  had  been. 

"Larry  and  I  had  a  wager  up,"  announced  Ted  to 
Sue  in  a  perfectly  clear,  distinct  voice  which  carried 
across  the  length  of  the  small  hall  now  that  the 
music  was  silent.  "He  said  he  could  paddle  down 
to  the  point,  current  against,  him,  faster  than  I 
could  paddle  back,  current  with  me.  We  took  a 
notion  to  try  it  out  tonight.  Please  forgive  us, 
Susanna,  my  dear.  A  Holiday  is  a  creature  of 
impulse  you  know." 

Sue  made  a  little  face  at  the  speaker.  She  was 
quite  sure  he  was  lying  about  the  wager,  but  she  was 
a  good  hostess  and  played  up.to  his  game. 

"You  don't  deserve  to  be  forgiven,  either  of  you," 
she  sniffed.  "Especially  Larry  who  never  comes  to 
parties  and  when  he  does  has  to  go  off  and  do  a 
silly  thing  like  that.  Who  won  though?  I  will 
ask  that."  She  smiled  at  Ted  and  he  grinned  back. 

"Larry,  of  course.  Give  me  a  dance,  Sue.  I've 
got  my  second  wind." 


200  WILD  WINGS 


"Bless  Ted!"  thought  Tony,  listening  to  her 
brother's  glib  excuses.  "Thank  goodness  he  can  lie 
like  that.  Larry  never  could."  And  as  her  eyes 
met  Ted's  a  moment  later  when  they  passed  each 
other  in  the  maze  of  dancers  he  murmured  "All 
right"  in  her  ear  and  she  was  well  content.  Bless 
Ted,  indeed ! 

Meanwhile  Larry  had  gone,  as  Ted  bade  him, 
straight  to  Ruth.  He  bent  over  her  tired  little 
white  face,  an  agony  of  remorse  in  his  own. 

"Ruth,  forgive  me.     I'll  never  forgive  myself." 

"Don't,  Larry.  It  is  I  who  ought  to  be  sorry  and 
I  am — oh  so  sorry — you  don't  know.  Ted  didn't 
mean  any  harm.  I  ought  not  to  have  let  him  do  it. 
It  was  my  fault." 

"There  was  nobody  at  fault  except  me  and  my 
fool  temper.  I  am  desperately  ashamed  of  myself 
Ruth.  I've  left  you  all  alone  all  this  time  and  I 
promised  I  wouldn't.  You'll  never  trust  me  again 
and  I  don't  deserve  to  be  trusted.  It  doesn't  do  any 
good  to  say  I  am  sorry.  It  can't  undo  what  I  did. 
I  didn't  dare  stay  and  that's  the  fact.  I  didn't 
know  what  I'd  do  to  Ted  if  he  got  in  my  way.  I 
felt — murderous." 

"Larry!" 

"I  know  it  sounds  awful.  It  is  awful.  It  is  an 
old  battle.  I  thought  I'd  won  it,  but  I  haven't. 
Don't  look  so  scared  though.  Nothing  happened. 
Ted  came  after  me  like  the  corking  big-hearted  kid 
he  is  and  brought  me  to,  in  half  the  time  I  could 
have  done  it  for  myself.  It  is  thanks  to  him  I'm 
here  now.  But  never  mind  that.  It  is  only  you 
that  matters.  Shall  I  take  you  home?  I  don't 
deserve  it,  but  if  you  will  let  me  it  will  show  you 
forgive  me  a  little  bit  anyway,"  he  finished 
humbly. 

"Don't  look  so  dreadfully  unhappy,  Larry.  It 
is  over  now,  and  of  course  I  forgive  you  if  you 


A  YOUNG  MAN  IN  LOVE  201 

think  there  is  anything  to  forgive.  I'm  so  thankful 
you  didn't  quarrel  with  Ted.  I  was  awfully  wor- 
ried and  so  was  Tony.  She  watched  the  door  every 
minute  till  you  came  back." 

"I  suppose  so,''  groaned  Larry.  "I  made  one  hor- 
rible mess  of  everything  for  you  all.  Are  you  ready 
to  go?" 

"I'd  like  to  dance  with  you  once  first,  Larry,  if — 
if  you  would  like  to." 

"Would  I  like  to !"  Larry's  face  lost  its  mantle 
of  glo'om,  was  sudden  sunshine  all  over.  "Will  you 
really  dance  wdth  me  -  after  the  rotten  way  I've  be- 
haved?" 

"Of  course,  I  will.  I  wanted  to  all  the  time,  but 
I  was  afraid.  But  when  Ted  made  me  it  all  came 
back  and  I  loved  it,  only  it  was  you  I  wanted  to 
dance  with  most.  You  know  that,  don't  you,  Lar- 
ry, dear?"  The  last  word  was  very  low,  scarcely 
more  than  a  breath,  but  Larry  heard  it  and  it  nearly 
undid  him.  A  flood  of  long-pent  endearments 
trembled  on  his  lips.  But  Ruth  held  up  a  hand  of 
warning. 

"Don't,  Larry.  We  mustn't  spoil  it.  We've  got 
to  remember  the  ring." 

"Damn  the  ring!"  he  exploded.  "I  beg  your  par- 
don." Larry  was  genuinely  shocked  at  his  own 
bad  manners.  "I  don't  know  why  I'm  such  a  brute 
tonight.  Let's  dance." 

And  to  the  delight  and  relief  of  the  younger 
Holidays,  Larry  and  Ruth  joined  the  dancers. 

The  dance  over,  they  made  their  farewells. 
Larry  guided  Ruth  down  the  slope,  his  arm  around 
her  ostensibly  for  her  support,  and  helped  her  into 
the  canoe.  Once  more  they  floated  off  over  the 
quiet  water,  under  the  quiet  stars.  But  their 
young  hearts  were  anything  but  quiet.  Their  love 
was  no  longer  an  unacknowledged  thing.  Neither 
knew  just  what  was  to  be  done  with  it;  but  there 


202  WILD  WINGS 


it  was  in  full  sight,  as  both  admitted  in  joy  and 
trepidation  and  silence. 

As  Larry  held  open  the  door  for  her  to  step  in- 
side the  quiet  hall  he  bent  over  the  girl  a  moment, 
taking  both  her  hands  in  his.  Then  he  drew  away 
abruptly  and  bolted  into  the  living  room,  leaving 
her  to  grope  her  way  up  stairs  in  the  dark  alone. 

"I  wonder,"  she  murmured  to  herself  later  as  she 
stood  before  her  mirror  shaking  out  her  rippling 
golden  locks  from  their  confining  net.  "I  wonder 
if  it  would  have  been  so  terrible  if  he  had  kissed  me 
just  that  once.  Sometimes  I  wish  he  weren't  quite 
so — so  Holidayish." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

TWO   HOLIDAYS  MAKE  CONFESSION 

THE  next  evening  Doctor  Holiday  listened  to  a 
rather  elaborate  argument  on  the  part  of  his  older 
nephew  in  favor  of  the  latter's  leaving  Dunbury 
immediately  in  pursuit  of  his  specialist  training 
that  he  had  planned  to  go  in  for  eventually. 

"You  are  no  longer  contented  here  with  me — 
with  us?"  questioned  the  older  man  when  the 
younger  had  ended  his  exposition. 

Larry's  quick  ear  caught  the  faint  hurt  in  his 
uncle's  voice  and  hastened  to  deny  the  inference. 

"It  isn't  that,  Uncle  Phil.  I  am  perfectly  satis- 
fied— happier  here  with  you  that  I  would  be  any- 
where else  in  the  world.  You  have  teen  wonder- 
ful to  me.  I  am  not  such  an  ungrateful  idiot  as 
not  to  understand  and  appreciate  what  a  start  it 
has  given  me  to  have  you  and  your  name  and  work 
behind  me.  Only — maybe  I've  been  under  your 
wing  long  enough.  Maybe  I  ought  to  stand  on 
my  feet." 

Doctor  Holiday  studied  the  troubled  young  face 
opposite  him.  He  was  fairly  certain  that  he  wasn't 
getting  the  whole  or  the  chief  reasons  which  were 
behind  this  sudden  proposition. 

"Do  you  wish  to  go  at  once?"  he  asked.  "Or 
will  the  first  of  the  year  be  soon  enough." 

Larry  flushed  and  fell  to  fumbling  with  a  paper 
knife  that  lay  on  the  desk. 

203 


204  WILD  WINGS 


"I — I  meant  to  go  right  away,"  he  stammered. 

"Why?" 

Larry  was  silent. 

"I  judge  the  evidence  isn't  all  in,"  remarked  the 
older  doctor  a  little  drily.  "Am  I  going  to  hear 
the  rest  of  it  — the  real  reason  for  your  decision  to 
go  just  now?" 

Still  silence  on  Larry's  part,  the  old  obstinate 
set  to  his  lips. 

"Very  well  then.  Suppose  I  take  my  turn.  I 
think  you  haven't  quite  all  the  evidence  yourself. 
Do  you  know  Granny  is  dying?" 

The  paper  knife  fell  with  a  click  to  the  floor. 

"Uncle  Phil!  No,  I  didn't  know.  Of  course  I 
knew  it  was  coming  but  you  mean  -  soon?" 

"Yes,  Larry,.!  mean  soon.  How  soon  no  one  can 
tell,  but  I  should  say  three  months  would  be  too 
long  to  allow." 

The  boy  brushed  his  hand  across  his  eyes.  He 
loved  Granny.  He  had  always  seemed  to  under- 
stand her  better  than  the  others  had  and  had  been 
himself  always  the  favorite.  Moreover  he  was 
bound  to  her  by  a  peculiar  tie,  having  once  saved 
her  life,  conquering  his  boyish  fear  to  do  so.  It 
was  hard  to  realize  she  was  really  going,  that  no  one 
could  save  her  now. 

"I  didn't  know,"  he  said  again  in  a  low  voice. 

"Ted  will  go  back  to  college.  I  shall  let  Tony  go 
to  New  York  to  study  as  she  wishes,  just  as  you  had 
your  chance.  It  isn't  exactly  the  time  for  you  to 
desert  ns,  my  boy." 

"I  won't,  Uncle  Phil.     I'll  stay." 

"Thank  you,  son.  I  felt  sure  you  wouldn't  fail 
us.  You  never  have.  But  I  wish  you  felt  as  if  you 
could  tell  me  the  other  reason  or  reasons  for  going 
which  you  are  keeping  back.  If  it  is  they  are 
stronger  than  the  one  I  have  given  you  for  staying 
it  is  only  fair  that  I  should  have  them." 


TWO  HOLIDAYS  MAKE  CONFESSION       205 

Larry's  eyes  fell.  A  slow  flush  swept  his  face, 
ran  up  to  his  very  hair. 

"My  boy,  is  it  "Ruth?" 

The  gray  eyes  lifted,  met  the  older  man's  grave 
gaze  unfalteringly. 

"Yes,  Uncle  Phil,  it  is  Ruth.  I  thought  you 
must  have  seen  it  before  this.  It  seemed  as  if  I 
were  giving  myself  away,  everything  I  did  or  didn't 
do." 

"I  have  thought  of  it  occasionally,  but  dismissed 
the  idea  as  too  fantastic.  It  hasn't  been  so  obvious 
as  it  seemed  to  you  no  doubt.  You  have  not  made 
love  to  her?" 

"Not  in  so  many  words.  I  might  just  as  well 
have  though.  She  knows.  If  it  weren't  for  the  ring 
— well,  I  think  she  would  care  too." 

"I  am  very  sorry,  Larry.  It  looks  like  a  bad 
business  all  round.  Yet  I  can't  see  that  you  have 
much  to  blame  yourself  for.  I  withdraw  my  ob- 
jections to  your  going  away.  If  it  seems  best  to 
you  to  go  I  haven't  a  word  to  say." 

"I  don't  know  whether  it  is  best  or  not.  I  go 
round  and  round  in  circles  trying  to  work  it  out. 
It  seems  cowardly  to  run  away  from  it,  particu- 
larly if  I  am  needed  here.  A  man  ought  not  to  pull 
up  stakes  just  because  things  get  a  little  hard.  Be- 
sides Ruth  would  think  she  had  driven  me  away. 
I  know  she  would  go  herself  if  she  guessed  I  was 
even  thinking  of  going.  And  I  couldn't  stand  that. 
I'd  go  to  the  north  pole  myself  and  stay  forever  be- 
fore I  would  send  her  away  from  you  all.  I  was  so 
grateful  to  you  for  asking  her  to  stay  and  making 
her  feel  she  was  needed.  She  was  awfully  touched 
and  pleased.  She  told  me  last  night." 

The  senior  doctor  considered,  thought  back  to 
his  talk  with  Ruth.  Poor  child !  So  that  was 
what  she  had  been  trying  to  tell  him.  She  had 


206  WILD  WINGS 


thought  she  ought  to  go  away  on  Larry's  account, 
just  as  he  was  thinking  he  ought  to  go  on  hers. 
Poor  hapless  youngsters  caught  in  the  mesh  of 
circumstances !  It  was  certainly  a  knotty  problem. 

"It  isn't  easy  to  say  what  is  right  and  best  to  do," 
he  said  after  a  moment.  "It  is  something  you  will 
have  to  decide  for  yourself.  When  you  came  to  me 
you  had  decided  it  was  best  to  go,  had  you  not? 
Was  there  a  specially  urgent  reason?" 

Larry  flushed  again  and  related  briefly  the  last 
night's  unhappy  incident. 

"I'm  horribly  ashamed  of  the  way  I  acted,"  he 
finished.  "And  the  whole  thing  showed  me  I 
couldn't  count  on  my  self-control  as  I  thought 
I  could.  I  couldn't  sleep  last  night,  and  I  thought 
perhaps  maybe  the  thing  to  do  was  to  get  out  quick 
before  I  did  any  real  damage.  It  doesn't  matter 
about  me.  It  is  Ruth." 

"Do  you  think  you  can  stay  on  and  keep  a  steady 
head  for  her  sake  and  for  ours?" 

"I  can,  Uncle  Phil.  It  is  up  to  me  to  stick  and 
I'll  do  it.  Uncle  Phil,  how  long  must  a  woman 
in  Ruth's  position  wait  before  she  can  legally 
marry?" 

"Ruth's  position  is  so  unique  that  I  doubt  if 
there  is  any  legal  precedent  for  it.  Ordinarily 
when  the  husband  fails  to  put  in  appearance 
and  the  presumption  is  he  is  no  longer  living,  the 
woman  is  considered  free  in  the  eyes  of  the  law, 
after  a  certain  number  of  years,  varying  I  believe, 
in  different  states.  With  Ruth  the  affair  doesn't 
seem  to  be  a  case  of  law  at  all.  She  is  in  a  position 
which  requires  the  utmost  protection  from  those 
who  love  her  as  we  do.  The  obligation  is  moral 
rather  than  legal.  I  wouldn't  let  my  mind  run  on 
the  marrying  aspects  of  the  case  at  present  my  boy." 
"I — Uncle  Phil,  sometimes  I  think  I'll  just  marry 


TWO  HOLIDAYS  MAKE  CONFESSION       207 

her  anyway  and  let  the  rest  of  it  take  care  of  itself. 
There  isn't  any  proof  she  is  married — not  the 
slightest  shadow  of  proof/'  Larry  argued  with  sud- 
den heat. 

His  uncle's  eyebrows  went  up. 
"Steady,  Larry.     A  wedding  ring  is  usually  con- 
sidered presumptive  evidence  of  marriage." 

"I  don't  care,"  flashed  the  boy,  the  tension  of  the 
past  weeks  suddenly  snapping.  "She  loves  me.  I 
don'-t  see  what  right  anything  has  to  come  between 
us.  What  is  a  wedding  ceremony  when  a  man  and 
woman  belong  to  each  other  as  we  belong?  Hanged 
if  I  don't  think  I'd  be  justified  in  marrying 
her  tomorrow !  There  is  nothing  but  a  ring  to 
prevent." 

"There  is  a  good  deal  more  than  a  ring  to  pre- 
vent," said  Doctor  Holiday  with  some  sternness. 
"What  if  you  did  do  just  that  and  her  husband 
appeared  in  two  months  or  six?'' 

"I  don't  believe  she  has  a  husband.  If  she  had 
he  would  have  come  after  her  before  this.  We've 
waited.  He's  had  time." 

"You  have  waited  scarcely  two  months,  Larry. 
That  is  hardly  enough  time  upon  which  to  base 
finalities." 

"What  of  it?  I'm  half  crazy  sometimes  over  the 
whole  thing.  I  can't  see  things  straight.  I  don't 
want  to.  I  don't  want  anything  but  Ruth,  whether 
she  is  married  or  not.  I  want  her.  Some  day  I'll 
ask  her  to  go  off  with  me  and  she  will  go.  She  will 
do  anything  I  ask." 

"Hold  on,  Larry  lad.  You  are  saying  things  you 
don't  mean.  You  are  the  last  man  in  the  world  to 
take  advantage  of  a  girl's  defenseless  position  and 
her  love  for  you  to  gratify  your  own  selfish  desires 
and  perhaps  wreck  her  life  and  your  own." 


208  WILD  WINGS 


Larry  bit  his  lip,  wheeled  and  went  over  to  the 
window,  staring  out  into  the  night.  At  last  he 
turned  back,  white,  but  master  of  himself  again. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Uncle  Phil.  You  are  right. 
I  was  talking  like  a  fool.  Of  course  I'll  do  nothing 
of  the  kind.  I  won't  do  anything  to  harm  Ruth 
anyway.  I  won't  even  make  love  to  her — if  I  can 
help  it,"  he  qualified  in  a  little  lower  tone. 

"If  you  can't  you  had  better  go  at  once,"  said  his 
uncle  still  a  bit  sternly.  Then  more  gently.  "I 
know  you  don't  want  to  play  the  cad,  Larry." 

"I  won't,  Uncle  Phil.     I  promise." 

"Very  well.  I  am  satisfied  with  your  word. 
Remember  I  am  ready  to  help  any  way  and  if  it 
gets  too  hard  I'll  make  it  easy  at  any  time  for  you 
to  go.  But  in  the  mean  time  we  won't  talk  about 
it.  The  least  said  the  better." 

Larry  nodded  his  assent  to  that  and  suddenly 
switched  to  another  subject,  asking  his  uncle  what 
he  knew  about  this  Alan  Massey  with  whom  Tony 
was  having  such  an  extensive  correspondence. 

His  uncle  admitted  that  he  didn't  know  much  of 
anything  about  him,  except  that  he  was  the  in- 
heritor of  the  rather  famous  Massey  property  and 
an  artist  of  some  repute. 

"He  has  plenty  of  repute  of  other  kinds,"  said 
Larry.  "He  is  a  thorough -going  rotter,  I  infer. 
I  made  some  inquiries  from  a  chap  who  knows  him. 
He  has  gone  the  pace  and  then  some.  It  makes 
me  sick  to  have  Tony  mixed  up  with  a  chap  like 
that." 

"You  haven't  said  anything  to  her  yourself?" 

"No.  Don't  dare.  It  would  only  make  it  worse 
for  me  to  tackle  her.  Neither  she  nor  Ted  will 
stand  any  interference  from  me.  We  are  a  cranky 
lot  I  am  afraid.  We  all  have  wrhat  Dad  used  to 


TWO  HOLIDAYS  MAKE  CONFESSION        209 

call  the  family  devil.     So  far  as  I  know  you  are  the 
only   person   on    record   that   can    manage   him." 

And  Larry  smiled  rather  shanie-facedly  at  his 
uncle. 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  all  three  have  to  learn  to 
manage  your  own  particular  familiar.  Devils  are 
rather  personal  property,  Larry." 

"Don't  I  know  it?  I  got  into  mighty  close  range 
with  mine  last  night,  and  just  now  for  that  matter. 
Anyway  I  am  not  prepared  to  do  any  preaching 
at  anybody  at  present;  but  I  would  be  awfully 
grateful  to  you  if  you  will  speak  to  Tony.  Some- 
body has  to.  And  you  can  do  it  a  million  times 
better  than  anyone  else." 

"Very  well.  I  will  see  what  I  can  do."  And 
thus  quietly  Doctor  Holiday  accepted  another 
burden  on  his  broad  shoulders. 

The  next  day  he  found  Tony  on  the  porch  read- 
ing one  of  the  long  letters  which  came  to  her  so 
frequently  in  the  now  familiar,  dashing  script. 

"Got  a  minute  for  me,  niece  o'  mine?"  he  asked. 

Tony  slid  Alan's  letter  back  into  its  envelope  and 
smiled  up  at  her  uncle. 

"Dozens  of  them,  nice  uncle,"  she  answered. 

"It  is  getting  well  along  in  the  summer  and  high 
time  we  decided  a  few  things.  Do  you  still  want 
to  go  in  for  the  stage  business  in  the  fall?" 

"I  want  to  very  much,  Uncle  Phil,  if  you  think 
it  isn't  too  much  like  deserting  Granny  and  the 
rest  of  you." 

"No,  you  have  earned  it.  I  want  you  to  go.  I 
don't  suppose  because  you  haven't  talked  about 
Hempers  offer  that  it  means  you  have  forgotten 
it?" 

"Indeed,  I  haven't  forgotten  it.  For  myself  I 
would  much  rather  get  straight  on  the  stage  if 


210  WILD  WINGS 


I  could  and  learn  by  doing  it,  but  you  would  pre- 
fer to  have  me  go  to  a  regular  dramatic  school, 
wouldn't  you?" 

"Yes,  Tony,  I  would.  A  year  of  preparation  isn't 
a  bit  too  much  to  get  your  bearings  in  before  you 
take  the  grand  plunge.  I  want  you  to  be  very  sure 
that  the  stage  is  what  you  really  want." 

"I  am  sure  of  that  already.  I've  been  sure  for 
ages.  But  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  do  the  thing 
any  way  you  want  and  I  am  more  grateful  than 
I  can  tell  you  that  you  are  on  my  side  about  it. 
Are  you  going  to  tell  Granny?  It  will  about 
break  her  .heart  I  am  afraid."  Tony's  eyes  were 
troubled.  She  did  hate  to  hurt  Granny ;  but  on  the 
other  hand  she  couldn't  wait  forever  to  begin. 

She  did  not  see  the  shadow  that  crept  over  her 
uncle's  face.  Well  he  knew  that  long  before  Tony 
was  before  the  footlights,  Granny  would  be  where 
prejudices  and  misunderstandings  were  no  more; 
but  he  had  no  wish  to  mar  the  girl's  happiness  by 
betraying  the  truth  just  now. 

"I  think  we  are  justified  in  indulging  in  a  little 
camouflage  there,"  he  said.  "We  will  tell  Granny 
you  are  going  to  study  art.  Art  covers  a  multi- 
tude of  sins,"  he  added  with  a  lightness  he  was  far 
from  feeling.  "One  thing  more,  my  dear.  I  have 
waited  a  good  while  to  hear  something  about  the 
young  man  who  writes  these  voluminous  letters." 
He  nodded  at  the  envelope  in  Tony's  lap.  "I  like 
his  writing;  but  I  should  like  to  know  something 
about  him, — himself." 

Tony  flushed  and  averted  her  eyes  for  a  moment. 
Then  she  looked  up  frnnkly. 

"I  haven't  said  anything  because  I  didn't  know 
what  to  say.  He  is  Alan  Massey,  the  artist.  I  met 
him  at  Carlotta's.  He  wants  to  marry  me." 


TWO  HOLIDAYS  MAKE  CONFESSION       211 

"But    you    have    not    already    accepted    him?" 

"No,  I  couldn't.  He — he  isn't  the  kind  of  man 
you  would  want  me  to  marry.  He  is  trying  to  be, 
for  my  sake  though.  I  think  he  will  succeed.  I 
told  him  if  he  wanted  to  ask  me  again  next  summer 
I  would  tell  him  what  my  answer  would  be." 

"He  is  on  probation  then?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  care  for  him?" 

"I— think  so." 

"You  don't  know  it?" 

"No,  Uncle  Phil.  I  don't.  He  cares  so  much  for 
me — so  terribly  much.  And  I  don't  know  whether 
I  care  enough  or  not.  I  should  have  to  care  a 
great  deal  to  overlook  what  he  has  been  and  done. 
Maybe  it  wasn't  anything  but  midsummer  madness 
and  his  wonderful  dancing.  We  danced  almost 
every  night  until  I  sent  him  away.  And  when  we 
danced  we  seemed  to  be  just  one  person.  Aside 
from  his  dancing  he  fascinated  me.  I  couldn't  for- 
get him  or  ignore  him.  He  was — is — different 
from  any  man  I  ever  knew.  I  feel  differently  about 
him  from  what  I  ever  felt  about  any  other  man. 
Maybe  it  is  love.  Maybe  it  isn't.  I — I  thought  it 
was  last  month." 

Doctor  Holiday  shook  his  head  dubiously. 

"And  you  are  not  so  sure  now?"  he  questioned. 

"Not  always,"  admitted  Tony.  "I  didn't  want 
to  love  him.  I  fought  it  with  all  my  might. 
I  didn't  want  to  be  bothered  with  love.  I  wanted 
to  be  happy  and  free  and  make  a  great  success  of 
my  work.  But  after  Alan  came  all  those  things 
didn't  seem  to  matter.  I  am  afraid  it  goes  rather 
deep,  Uncle  Phil.  Sometimes  I  think  he  means 
more  to  me  than  even  you  and  Larry  and  Ted  do. 
It  is  strange.  It  isn't  kind  or  loyal  or  decent 


212  WILD  WINGS 


But  that  is  the  way  it  is.     I  have  to  be  honest, 
even  if  it  hurts." 

Her  dark  eyes  were  wistful  and  beseeched  for- 
giveness as  they  sought  her  uncle's.  He  did  not 
speak  and  she  went  on  swiftly,  earnestly. 

"Please  don't  ask  me  to  break  off  with  him, 
Uncle  Phil.  I  couldn't  do  it,  not  only  because 
I  care  for  him  too  much,  but  because  it  would  be 
cruel  to  him.  He  has  gotten  out  of  his  dark 
forest.  I  don't  want  to  drive  him  back  into  it. 
And  that  is  what  it  would  mean  if  I  deserted  him 
now.  I  have  to  go  on,  no  matter  what  you  or 
Larry  or  any  one  thinks  about  it." 

She  had  risen  now  and  stood  before  her  uncle 
earnestly  pleading  her  lover's  cause  and  her  own. 

"It  isn't  fair  to  condemn  a  man  forever  because 
he  has  made  mistakes  back  in  the  past.  We  don't 
any  of  us  know  what  we  would  have  been  like  if 
things  had  been  different.  Larry  and  Ted  are  fine. 
I  am  proud  of  their  clean  record.  It  would  be 
horrible  if  people  said  things  about  either  of  them 
such  as  they  say  about  Alan.  But  Larry  and  Ted 
have  every  reason  to  be  fine.  They  have  had  you 
and  Dad  and  Grandfather  Holiday  and  the  rest  of 
them  to  go  by.  They  have  lived  all  their  lives  in 
the  Holiday  tradition  of  what  a  man  should  be. 
Alan  has  had  nobody,  nothing.  Nobody  ever 
helped  him  to  see  the  difference  between  right  and 
wrong  and  why  it  mattered  which  you  chose.  He 
does  see  now.  He  is  trying  to  begin  all  over  again 
and  begin  right.  And  I'm  going  to  stand  by  him. 
I  have  to — even  if  I  have  to  go  against  you,  Uncle 
Phil." 

There  was  a  quiver — almost  a  sob  in  Tony's  voice 
Her  uncle  drew  her  into  his  arms. 

"All  right,  little  girl.     It  is  not  an-  easy  thing 


TWO  HOLIDAYS  MAKE  CONFESSION       213 

to  swallow.  I  hate  to  have  your  shining  whiteness 
touch  pitch  even  for  a  minute.  No,  wait,  dear. 
I  am  not  going  to  condemn  your  lover.  If  he  is 
sincerely  in  earnest  in  trying  to  clean  the  slate, 
I  have  only  respect  for  the  effort.  You  afe  right 
about  much  of  it.  We  can  none  of  us  afford  to  do 
over  much  judging.  We  are  all  sinners,  more  or 
less.  And  there  are  a  million  things  to  be  taken 
into  consideration  before  we  may  dare  to  sit  in 
judgment  upon  any  human  being.  It  takes  a  God 
to  do  that.  I  am  not  going  to  ask  you  to  give  him 
up,  or  to  stop  writing  or  even  seeing  him.  But 
I  do  want  you  to  go  slow.  Marriage  is  a  solemn 
thing.  Don't  wreck  your  life  from  pity  or  mis- 
taken devotion.  Better  a  heart-ache  now  than  a 
life-long  regret.  Let  your  lover  prove  himself 
just  as  you  have  set  him  to  do.  A  woman  can't 
save  a  man.  He  has  to  save  himself.  But  if  he 
will  save  himself  for  love  of  her  the  chances  are 
he  will  stay  saved  and  his  love  is  the  real  thing. 
I  shall  accept  your  decision.  I  shan't  fight  it  in 
any  way,  whatever  it  is.  All  I  ask  is  that  you  will 
wait  the  full  year  before  you  make  any  definite 
promise  of  marriage." 

"I  will,"  said  Tony.  "I  meant  to  do  that  any 
way.  I  am  not  such  a  foolish  child  as  maybe  you 
have  been  thinking  I  was.  I  am  pretty  much 
grown  up,  Uncle  Phil.  And  I  have  plenty  of  sense. 
It  I  hadn't — I  should  be  married  to  Alan  this 
minute." 

He  smiled  a  little  sadly  at  that. 

"Youth !  Youth !  Yes,  Tony,  I  believe  you  have 
sense.  Maybe  I  have  under-estimated  it.  Any 
way  I  thank  the  good  Lord  for  it.  No  more 
secrets?  Everything  clear?" 

He  lifted  her  face  in  his  hands  and  looked  down 
into  her  eyes  with  tender  searching. 


214  WILD  WINGS 


"Not  a  secret.  I  am  very  glad  to  have  you 
know.  We  all  feel  better  the  moment  we  dump 
all  our  woes  on  you,"  she  sighed. 

He  smiled  and  stroked  her  hair. 

"I  had  much  rather  be  a  dumping  ground  than 
be  shut  out  of  the  confidence  of  any  one  of  you. 
That  hurts.  We  all  have  to  stand  by  Larry,  just 
now.  Not  in  words  but  in — well,  we'll  call  it 
moral  support.  The  poor  lad  needs  it." 

"Oh,  Uncle  Phil!  Did  he  tell  you  or  did  you 
guess?" 

A  little  of  both.  The  boy  is  in  a  bad  hole,  Tony. 
But  he  will  keep  out  of  the  worst  of  the  bog.  He 
has  grit  and  chivalry  enough  to  pull  through  some- 
how. And  maybe  before  many  weeks  the  mystery 
will  be  cleared  for  better  or  worse.  We  can  only 
hope  for  the  best  and  hold  on  tight  to  Larry,  and 
Euth  too,  till  they  are  out  of  the  woods." 


CHAPTER  XX 

A  YOUNG  MAN  NOT  FOR  SALE 

PHILIP  LAMBERT  was  rather  taken  by  surprise 
when -Harrison  Cressy  appeared  at  the  store  one 
day  late  in  August,  announcing  that  he  had  come 
to  talk  business  and  practically  commanding  the 
young  man  to  lunch  with  him. that  noon.  It  was 
Saturday  and  Phil  had  little  time  for  idle  con- 
jecture, but  he  did  wonder  every  now  and  then 
that  morning  what  business  Carlotta's  father 
could  possibly  have  with  himself,  and  if  by  any 
chance  Carlotta  had  sent  him. 

Later,  seated  in  the  dining-room  of  the  Eagle 
Hotel,  Dunbury's  one  hostelry,  it  seemed  to  Phil 
that  his  host  was  distinctly  nervous,  with  con- 
siderably less  than  his  usual  brusque,  dogmatic 
poise  of  manner. 

Having  left  soup  the  waiter  shuffled  away  with 
the  congenital  air  of  discouragement  which  belongs 
to  his  class,  and  Harrison  Cressy  got  down  to 
business  in  regard  both  to  the  soup  and  his  mission 
in  Dunbtiry.  He  was  starting  a  branch  brokerage 
concern  in  a  small  city  just  out  of  Boston.  He 
needed  a  smart  young  man  to  put  at  the  head  of 
it.  The  smart  young  man  would  get  a  salary  of 
five  thousand  a  year,  plus  his  commissions  to  start 
with.  If  he  made  good  the  salary  would  go  up  in 
proportion.  In  fact  the  sky  would  be  the  limit. 
He  offered  the  post  to  Philip  Lambert. 

Phil  laid  down  his  soup  spoon  and  stared  at  his 
companion.  After  a  moment  he  remarked  that  it 

215 


216  WILD  WINGS 


was  rather  unusual,  to  say  the  least,  to  offer  a 
salary  like  that  to  an  utter  greenhorn  in  a  business 
as  technical  as  brokerage,  and  that  he  was  afraid 
he  was  not  in  the  least  fitted  for  the  position  in 
question. 

"That  is  my  look  out,"  snapped  Mr.  Cressy.  "Do 
I  look  like  a  born  fool,  Philip  Lambert?  You 
don't  suppose  I  am  jumping  in  the  dark  do  you? 
I  have  gone  to  some  pains  to  look  up  your  record 
in  college.  I  found  out  you  made  good  no  matter 
what  you  attempted,  on  the  gridiron,  in  the  class- 
room, everywhere  else.  I've  been  picking  men  for 
years  and  I've  gone  on  the  principle  that  a  man 
who  makes  good  in  one  place  will  make  good  in 
another  if  he  has  sufficient  incentive." 

"I  suppose  the  five  thousand  is  to  be  considered 
in  the  light  of  an  incentive,"  said  Phil. 

"It  is  five  times  the  incentive  and  more  than  I 
had  when  I  started  out,"  grunted  his  host. 
"What  more  do  you  want?" 

"Nothing.  I  don't  want  so  much.  I  couldn't 
earn  it.  And  in  any  case  I  cannot  consider  any 
change  at  present.  I  have  gone  in  with  my  father." 

"So  I  understood.  But  that  is  not  a  hard  and 
fast  arrangement.  A  young  man  like  you  has  to 
look  ahead.  Your  father  won't  stand  in  the  way 
of  your  bettering  yourself."  Harrison  Cressy 
spoke  with  conviction.  Well  he  might.  Though 
Philip  had  not  known  it  his  companion  had  spent 
an  hour  in  earnest  conversation  with  his  father 
that  morning.  Harrison  Cressy  knew  his  ground 
there. 

"Go  ahead,  Mr.  Cressy,"  Stewart  Lambert  had 
said  at  the  close  of  the  interview.  "You  have  my 
full  permission  to  offer  the  position  to  the  boy  and 
he  has  my  full  permission  to  accept  it.  He  is  free 
to  go  tomorrow  if  he  cares  to.  If  it  is  for  his  hap- 
piness it  is  what  his  mother  and  I  want." 


A  YOUNG  MAN  NOT  FOR  SALE  217 

But  the  younger  Lambert  was  yet  to  be  reckoned 
with. 

"It  is  a  hard  and  fast  arrangement  so  far  as  I  am 
concerned,"  he  said  quietly  now.  "Dad  can  fire 
me.  I  shan't  fire  myself." 

Mr.  Cressy  made  a  savage  lunge  at  a  fly  that  had 
ventured  to  light  on  the  sugar  bowl,  not  knowing 
it  was  for  the  time  being  Millionaire  Cressy's  sugar 
bowl.  He  hated  being  balked,  even  temporarily. 
He  had  supposed  the  hardest  sledding  would  be 
over  -when  he  had  won  the  father's  consent.  He 
had  authentic  inside  information  that  the  son  had 
stakes  other  than  financial.  He  counted  on  youth's 
imperious  urge  to  happiness.  The  lad  had  done 
without  Carlotta  for  two  months  now.  It  had 
seemed  probable  he  would  be  more  amenable  to 
reason  in  August  than  he  had  been  in  June.  But 
it  did  not  look  like  it  just  now. 

"You  are  a  darn  fool,  my  young  man,"  he 
snarled. 

"Very  likely,"  said  Phil  Lambert,  with  the  samp 
quietness  which  had  marked  his  father's  speech 
earlier  in  the  day.  "If  you  had  a  son,  Mr.  Cressy, 
wouldn't  you  want  him  to  be  the  same  kind  of  a 
darn  fool?  Would  you  expect  him  to  take  French 
leave  the  first  time  somebody  offered  him  more 
money?" 

Harrison  Cressy  snorted,  beckoned  to  the  waiter 
his  face  purple  with  rage.  Why  in  blankety  blank 
blank  et  cetera,  et  cetera,  didn't  he  bring  the  fish? 
Did  he  think  they  were  there  for  the  season? 
Philip  did  not  know  he  had  probed  an  old  wound. 
The  one  great  disappointment  of  Harrison  Cressy's 
career  was  the  fact  that  he  had  no  son,  or  had  had 
one  for  such  a  brief  space  of  hours  that  he  scarcely 
counted  except  as  a  pathetic  might-have-been 
And  even  as  Phil  had  said,  so  he  would  have  wanted 
his  son  to  behave.  The  boy  was  a  man,  every  inch 


218  WILD  WINGS 


of  him,  just  such  a  man  as  Harrison  Cressy  had 
coveted  for  his  own. 

"Hang  the  money  part!"  he  snapped  back  at 
Phil,  after  the  interlude  with  the  harrassed  waiter. 
"Let's  drop  it." 

"With  all  my  heart,"  agreed  Phil.  "Considering 
the  money  part  hanged  what  is  left  to  the  offer? 
Carlotta?" 

Mr.  Cressy  dropped  his  fork  with  a  resounding 
clatter  to  the  floor  and  swore  muttered  monotonous 
oaths  at  the  waiter  for  not  being  instantaneously 
on  the  spot  to  replace  the  implement. 

"Young  man,"  he  said  to  Phil.  "You  are  too 
devilish  smart.  Carlotta — is  why  I  am  here." 

"So  I  imagined.     Did  she  send  you?" 

"Great  Scott,  no!  My  life  wouldn't  be  worth 
a  brass  nickel  if  she  knew  I  was  here." 

"I  am  glad  she  didn't.  I  wouldn't  like  Carlotta 
to  think  I  could  be — bribed." 

"She  didn't.  Carlotta  has  perfectly  clear  im- 
pressions as  to  where  you  stand.  She  gives  you 
entire  credit  for  being  the  blind,  stubborn,  pig- 
headed jack-ass  that  you  are." 

Phil  grinned  faintly  at  this  accumulation  of  epi 
thets,  but  his  blue  eyes  had  no  mirth  in  them.  The 
interview  was  beginning  to  be  something  of  a 
strain.  He  wished  it  were  over. 

"That's  good,"  he  said.  "Apparently  we  all 
know  where  we  all  stand.  I  have  no  illusions  about 
Carlotta's  view-point  either.  There  is  no  reason 
I  should  have.  I  got  it  first  hand." 

"Don't  be  an  idiot,"  ordered  Mr.  Cressy.  "A 
woman  can  have  as  many  view-points  as  there  are 
days  in  the  year,  counting  Sundays  double.  You 
have  no  more  idea  this  minute  where  Carlotta 
stands  than — than  I  have,"  he  finished  ignomini- 
ously,  wiping  his  perspiring  forehead  with  an  im- 
ported linen  handkerchief. 


'YOU  SEE,  PHILIP/  HE  WENT  ON    ...    CARLOTTA  IS  IN  LOVE 
WITH   YOU/" 


A  YOUNG  MAN  NOT  FOR  SALE  219 

"Do  you  mind  telling  me  just  why  you  are  here, 
if  Carlotta  didn't  send  you?  I  don't  flatter  my- 
self you  automatically  selected  me  for  your  new 
post  without  some  rather  definite  reason  behind 
it." 

"I  came  because  I  had  a  notion  you  were  the 
best  man  for  another  job — a  job  that  makes  the 
whole  brokerage  business  look  like  a  game  of  jack- 
straws — the  job  of  marrying  my  daughter 
Carlotta." 

Phil  stared.  He  had  not  expected  Mr.  Cressy  to 
take  this  position.  He  had  been  ready  enough 
to  believe  Caiiotta's  prophecy  that  her  parent 
would  raise  a  merry  little  row  if  she  announced  to 
him  her  intention  of  marrying  that  obscure  indi- 
vidual, Philip  Lambert,  of  Dunbury,  Massachusetts 
He  thought  that  particular  way  of  behavior  on  the 
parent's  part  not  only  probable  but  more  or  less 
justifiable,  all  things  considered.  He  saw  no 
reason  now  why  Mr.  Cressy  should  feel  otherwise. 

Harrison  Cressy  drained  a  deep  draught  of  water, 
once  more  wiped  his  highly  shining  brow  and 
leaned  forward  over  the  table  toward  his  puzzled 
guest. 

"You  see,  Philip,"  he  went  on  using  the  young 
man's  first  name  for  the  first  time.  "Carlotta  is 
in  love  with  you." 

Philip  flushed  and  his  frank  eyes  betrayed  that 
this,  though  not  entirely  new  news,  was  not  un- 
welcome to  hear. 

"In  fact,"  continued  Carlotta's  father  grimly, 
"she  is  so  much  in  love  with  you  she  is  going  to 
marry  another  man." 

The  light  went  out  of  Phil's  eyes  at  that,  but  he 
said  nothing  to  this  any  more  than  he  had  to  the 
preceding  statement.  He  waited  for  the  other  man 
to  get  at  what  he  wanted  to  say. 

"I   can't   stand    Carlotta's   being  miserable.     I 


220  WILD  WINGS 


never  could.  It  is  why  I  am  here.,  to  see  if  I  can't 
fix  up  a  deal  with  you  to  straighten  things  out. 
I  am  in  your  hands,  boy,  at  your  mercy.  I  have 
the  reputation  of  being  hard  as  shingle  nails.  I'm 
soft  as  putty  where  the  girl  is  concerned.  It  kills 
me  by  inches  to  have  her  unhappy." 

"Is  she — very  unhappy?"  Phil's  voice  was 
sober.  He  thought  that  he  too  was  soft  as  putty, 
or  softer  where  Carlotta  was  concerned.  It  made 
him  sick  all  over  to  think  of  her  being  unhappy. 

"She  is — damnably  unhappy."  Harrison  Cressy 
blew  his  nose  with  a  sound  as-  of  a  trumpet.  "Here 
you,"  he  bellowed  at  the  waiter  who  was  timidly 
approaching.  "Is  that  our  steak  at  last?  Bring 
it  here,  quick,  and  don't  jibber.  Are  you  deaf  and 
dumb  as  well  as  paralyzed?" 

The  host  attacked  the  steak  with  ferocity,  slam- 
med a  generous  section  on  a  plate  and  fairly  threw 
it  at  the  young  man  opposite.  Phil  wasn't  inter- 
ested in  steak.  He  scarcely  looked  at  it.  His  eyes 
were  on  Mr.  Cressy,  his  thoughts  were  on  that 
gentleman's  -only  daughter. 

"I  am  sorry  she  is  unhappy,"  he  said.  "I  don't 
know  how  much  you  know  about  it  all;  but  since 
you  know  so  much  I  assume  you  also  know  that 
I  care  for  Carlotta  just  as  much  as  she  cares  for 
me,  possibly  more.  I  would  marry  her  tomorrow 
if  I  could." 

"For  the  Lord  Harry's  sake,  do  it  then.  I'll  put 
up  the  money." 

Phil's  face  hardened. 

"That  is  precisely  the  rock  that  Carlotta  and 
I  split  on,  Mr.  Cressy.  She  wanted  to  have  you  put 
up  the  money.  I  love  Carlotta  but  I  don't  love 
her  enough  to  let  her  or  you — buy  me." 

The  old  man  and  the  young  faced  each  other 
across  the  table.  There  was  a  deadlock  between 
them  and  both  knew  it. 


A  YOUNG  MAN  NOT  FOR  SALE  221 

"But  this  offer  I've  made  you  is  a  bona  fide  one. 
You'll  make  good.  You  will  be  worth  the  five 
thousand  and  more  in  no  time.  I  know  your  kind. 
I  told  you  I  was  a  good  picker.  It  isn't  a  question 
of  buying.  Can  the  movie  stuff.  It's  a  fair  give 
and  take." 

"I  have  refused  your  offer,  Mr.  Cressy." 

"You  refused  it  before  you  knew  Carlotta  was 
eating  her  heart  out  for  you.  Doesn't  that  make 
any  difference  to  you,  my  lad?  You  said  you  loved 
her,"-  reproachfully. 

A  huge  blue-bottle  fly  buzzed  past  the  table, 
passed  on  to  the  window  where  it  fluttered  about 
aimlessly,  bumping  itself  against  the  pane  here 
and  there.  Mechanically  Phil  watched  its  gyra- 
tions. It  was  one  of  the  hardest  moments  of  his 
life. 

"In  one  way  it  makes  a  great  difference,  Mr. 
Cressy,"  he  answered  slowly.  "It  breaks  my  heart 
to  have  her  unhappy.  But  it  wouldn't  make  her 
happy  to  have  me  do  something  I  know  isn't  right 
or  fair  or  wrise.  I  know  Carlotta.  Maybe  I  know 
her  better  than  you  do;  I  know  she  doesn't  want 
me  that  way." 

"But  you  can't  expect  her  to  live  in  a  hole  like 
this,  on  a  yearly  income  that  is  probably  less  than 
she  spends  in  one  month  just  for  nothing  much." 

"I  don't  expect  it,"  explained  Phil  patiently. 
"I've  never  blamed  Carlotta  for  deciding  against 
it.  But  there  is  no  use  going  over  it  all.  She  and 
I  had  it  o-ut  together.  It  is  our  affair,  not  yours, 
Mr.  Cressy." 

"Philip  Llambert,  did  you  ever  see  Carlotta  cry?" 

Phil  winced.     The  shot  went  home. 

"No.     I'd  hate  to,"  he  admitted. 

"You  would,"  seconded  Harrison  Cressy.  "I 
hated  it  like  the  devil  myself.  She  cried  all  over 
my  new  dress  suit  the  other  night." 


222  WILD  WINGS 


Phil's  heart  was  one  gigantic  ache.  The  thought 
of  Carlotta  in  tears  was  almost  unbearable. 
Carlotta — his  Carlotta — was  all  sunshine  and 
laughter. 

"It  was  like  this,"  went  on  Carlotta's  parent. 
"Her  aunt  told  me  she  was  going  to  marry  young 
Lathrop — old  skin-flint  tea-and-coffee  Lathrop's 
son.  I  couldn't  quite  stomach  it.  The  fellow's 
an  ass,  an  unobjectionable  ass,  it  is  true,  but  with 
all  the  ear  marks.  I  tackled  Carlotta  about  it. 
She  said  she  wasn't  engaged  but  might  be  any 
minute.  I  said  some  fool  thing  about  wanting  her 
to  be  happy,  and  the  next  thing  I  knew  she  was  in 
my  arms  crying  like  anything.  I  haven't  seen  her 
cry  since  she  was  a  little  tot.  She  has  laughed  her 
way  through  life  always  up  to  now.  I  couldn't 
bear  it.  I  can't  bear  it  now,  even  remembering  it. 
I  squeezed  the  story  out  of  her,  drop  at  a  time, 
till  I  got  pretty  much  the  whole  bucket  full.  I 
tell  you,  Phil  Lambert,  you've  got  to  give  in. 
I  can't  have  her  heart  broken.  You  can't  have 
her  heart  broken.  God,  man,  it's  your  funeral 
too." 

Phil  felt  very  much  as  if  it  were  his  own  funeral. 
But  he  did  not  speak.  He  couldn't.  The  other 
forged  on,  his  big,  mumbling  bass  mingled  with 
the  buzz  of  the  blue-bottle  in  the  window. 

"I  made  up  my  mind  something  had  to  be  done 
and  done  quick.  I  wasn't  going  to  have  my  little 
girl  run  her  head  into  the  noose  by  marrying 
Lathrop  when  it  was  you  she  loved.  I  got  busy, 
made  inquiries  about  you  as  I  said.  I  had  to  before 
I  offered  you  the  job  naturally,  but  it  was  more 
than  that.  I  had  to  find  out  whether  you  were  the 
kind  of  man  I  wanted  my  Carlotta  to  marry.  I 
found  out,  and  came  up  here  to  put  the  proposition 
to  you.  I  talked  to  your  father  first,  by  the  way, 
and  got  his  consent  to  go  ahead  with  my  plans." 


A  YOUNG  MAN  NOT  FOR  SALE  223 

"You  went  to  my  father!"  There  was  concern 
and  a  trace  of  indignation  in  Phil's  voice. 

"Naturally  I  was  playing  to  win.  I  had  to  hold 
all  the  trumps.  I  wanted  your  father  on  my  side — 
had  to  have  him  in  fact.  He  came  without  a  mur- 
mur. He  is  a  good  sport.  Said  all  he  wanted  was 
your  happiness,  same  as  all  I  wanted  was  Car- 
lotta's.  We  quite  understood  each  other." 

Phil  sat  silent  with  down  cast  eyes  on  his  almost 
untasted  salad.  He  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  his 
father's  being  attacked  like  that,  hit  with  a  light- 
ning bolt  out  of  a  clear  sky.  The  more  he  thought 
about  it  the  more  he  resented  it.  Of  course  Dad 
would  agree.  He  was  a  good  sport  as  Mr.  Cressy 
said.  But  that  didn't  make  the  thing  any  easier 
or  more  justifiable. 

"Your  father  is  willing.  I  want  it.  Carlotta 
wants  it.  You  want  it,  yourself.  Lord,  boy,  be 
honest.  You  know  you  do.  You'll  never  regret 
giving  in.  Remember  it  is  for  Carlotta's  hap- 
piness we  are  both  looking  for."  There  was  an 
almost  pleading  note  in  Harrison  Cressy's  voice — 
a  note  few  men  had  heard.  He  was  more  used  to 
command  than  to  sue  for  what  he  desired. 

Phil  rose  from  the  table.  His  face  was  a  little 
white  as  he  stood  there,  tall,  quiet,  perfectly  master 
of  himself  and  the  situation.  Even  before  the 
young  man  spoke  Harrison  Cressy  knew  he  had 
failed. 

"I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Cressy.  If  Carlotta  wants  hap- 
piness with  me  I  am  afraid  she  will  have  to  come 
to  Dunbury." 

"You  won't  reconsider?" 

"There  is  nothing  to  reconsider.  There  never 
was  any  question.  I  am  sorry  you  even  raised  one 
in  Dad's  mind.  You  shouldn't  have  gone  to  him 
in  the  first  place.  You  should  have  come  to  me. 
It  was  for  me  to  settle." 


224  WILD  WINGS 


"Highty,  tighty!"  fumed  the  exasperated  mag- 
nate. "People  don't  tell  me  what  I  should  and 
should  not  do.  They  do  what  I  tell  'em." 

"I  don't,"  said  Philip  Lambert  in  much  the  same 
tone  he  had  once  said  to  Carlotta,  "You  can't  have 
this."  "I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Cressy.  I  don't  want  to 
be  rude,  or  unkind  or  obstinate ;  but  there  are  some 
things  no  man  can  decide  for  me.  And  there  are 
some  things  I  won't  do  even  to  win  Carlotta." 

Harrison  Cressy's  head  drooped  for  a  moment. 
He  was  beaten  for  once — beaten  by  a  lad  of  twenty- 
three  whose  will  was  quite  as  strong  as  his  own. 
The  worst  of  it  was  he  had  never  liked  any  young 
man  in  his  life  so  well  as  he  liked  Philip  Lambert 
at  this  minute,  never  so  coveted  any  thing  for  his 
daughter  Carlotta  as  he  coveted  her  marriage  with 
Philip  Lambert. 

"That  is  final,  I  suppose,"  he  asked  after  a 
moment,  looking  up  at  the  young  man. 

"Absolutely,  Mr.   Cressy.     I  am  sorry." 

Harrison  Cressy  lumbered  to  his  feet. 

"I  am  sorry  too,"  he  said,  "damnably  sorry  for 
Carlotta  and  for  myself.  Will  you  shake  hands 
with  me,  Philip?  It  is  good  to  meet  a  man  now 
and  then." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

HARRISON   CRESSY   REVERTS 

LEFT  to  himself,  Harrison  Cressy  discovered  to 
his  annoyance  that  there  was  no  train  out  of  Dun- 
bury  for  two  hours.  That  was  the  worst  of  these 
little  one-horse  towns.  You  might  as  well  be  dead 
as  alive  in  'em.  By  the  time  he  had  smoked  his 
after-dinner  cigar  he  felt  as  if  he  might  as  well  be 
dead  himself.  He  felt  suddenly  heavy,  old,  almost 
decrepit,  though  that  morning  when  he  had  left 
Boston  he  had  considered  himself  in  the  prime  of 
life  and  vigor.  Hang  it!  He  was  sixty-nine.  A 
man  was  about  done  for  at  sixty-nine,  all  but  ready 
to  turn  into  his  grave.  And  he  without  son  or 
grandson.  Lord!  What  a  swindle  life  was  any- 
way ! 

Well,  there  was  no  use  sitting,  still  groaning. 
He  would  get  up  and  take  a  little  walk  until  train 
time.  Maybe  it  was  .his  liver  that  made  him  feel 
so  confoundedly  rotten  and  no  count.  A  little  ex- 
ercise would  do  him  good. 

Absentmindedly  he  noted,  as  he  strolled  down 
the  elm-shaded  streets,  the  neatness  of  the  lawns, 
the  gay  flower  beds,  the  hammocks  and  swings  out 
under  the  trees  as  if  people  really  lived  out  of  doors 
here.  There  were  animate  evidences  of  the  fact 
everywhere.  Children  played  here  and  there  in 
shady  spaces  under  big  trees.  Pretty  girls  on 
wide,  hospitable-looking  porches  chatted  and  drank 
lemonade  and  knitted.  A  lithe,  red-haired  lass  in 

225 


226  WILD  WINGS 


white  played  tennis  on  a  smooth  dirt  court  with 
a  tall,  clean  looking  youth.  As  Mr.  Cressy  passed 
the  girl  cried  out,  "Love  all"  and  the  millionaire 
smiled.  It  occurred  to  him  it  was  not  so  hard  to 
love  all  in  a  village  like  this.  It  was  only  in  cities 
that  you  hated  your  neighbor  and  did  him  first 
lest  you  be  done  yourself. 

He  hadn't  been  loose  in  a  country  town  like  this 
for  years.  He  had  almost  forgotten  what  they 
were  like  when  you  didn't  shoot  through  them  in 
a  motor  car,  rushing  always  to  get  somewhere  else. 
His  casual  saunter  down  the  quiet  street  was  oddly 
soothing  to  his  nerves,  awoke  happy,  yet  half-sad 
memories. 

He  had  met  and  loved  Carlotta's  mother  in  a 
country  town.  The  lilacs  had  been  in  bloom  and 
the  orioles  had  stood  sponsor  for  his  first  Sunday 
call.  They  had  become  engaged  by  the  time  the 
asters  were  out.  The  next  lilac  time  they  had  been 
married.  A  third  spring  and  the  little  Carlotta 
had  come.  They  had  both  been  disappointed  at 
its  not  being  a  boy,  but  the  little  girl  was  a  wonder, 
with  hair  as  gold  as  buttercups,  eyes  like  wood 
violets  and  a  laugh  that  lilted  and  gurgled  like  the 
little  brook  down  in  the  meadow. 

And  then,  two  years  later,  the  boy  had  come, 
come  and  drifted  off  to  some  far  place.  It  had 
been  a  bitter  blow  to  Rose  as  well  as  to  Harrison 
Cressy,  especially  as  they  said  there  never  could 
be  any  more  children.  Kose  grew  frail,  did  not 
rally  or  regain  her  strength.  They  advised  a 
sanitarium  in  the  Adirondacks  for  her.  She  had 
gone,  but  it  had  been  of  no  use.  By  the  time  they 
brought  in  the  first  gentians  Kose  had  drifted  off 
after  her  little  son.  Carlotta  and  her  father  were 
alone. 

By  this  time  Harrison  Cressy  had  begun  to  show 
the  authentic  Midas  touch.  Only  the  little  Car- 


HARRISON  CRESSY  REVERTS  227 

lotta  stood  between  him  and  sheer,  sordid  money 
grubbing.  And  even  she  was  an  excuse  for  the 
getting  of  always  more  and  more  wealth.  He  told 
himself  Carlotta  should  be  a  veritable  princess, 
should  go  always  clad  in  the  finest,  have  of  the  best, 
be  surrounded  always  by  the  most  beautiful.  She 
should  know  only  joy  and  light  and  laughter. 

Thinking  these  thoughts,  Carlotta's  father  sighed. 
For  now  at  last  Carlotta  wanted  something  he 
coulcl  not  give  her,  was  learning  after  twenty-two 
years  of  cloudless  joy  the  bitter  way  of  tears.  Why 
hadn't  that  stubborn  boy  surrendered? 

For  that  matter  why  didn't  Carlotta  surrender? 
This  was  a  new  idea  to  Harrison  Cressy.  All  the 
time  he  had  been  talking  to  Philip  Lambert  he 
had  been  seeing  Carlotta  only  in  relation  to  Crest 
House  and  the  -Beacon  Street  mansion.  But  just 
now  he  had  been  recalling  her  mother  under  very 
different  associations.  Rose  had  been  content 
with  a  tiny  little  cottage  set  in  a  green  yard  gay 
with  bright  old  fashioned  flowers.  He  and  Rose 
had  nested  as  happily  as  the  orioles  in  the  maples, 
especially  after  the  gold-haired  baby  came.  Was 
Carlotta  so  different  from  Rose?  Was  her  hap- 
piness such  a  different  kind  of  thing?  Were 
women  not  pretty  much  alike  at  heart?  Did  they 
not  want  about  the  same  things? 

Carlotta  loved  this  lad  of  hers  as  Rose  had  loved 
himself.  Was  it  her  own  father  who  was  cheating 
her  out  of  happiness  because  he  had  taught  her  to 
believe  that  money  and  limousines  and  great  houses 
and  many  servants  and  silken  robes  are  happiness? 
If  he  had  talked  to  her  of  other  things,  told  her 
about  her  mother  and  the  happy  old  days  among 
the  lilacs^  and  orioles,  with  little  but  love  to  nest 
with,  couldn't  he  have  made  her  see  things  more 
truly,  shown  her  that  love  was  the  main  thing,  that 
money  could  not  buy  happiness?  One  could  not 


228  WILD  WINGS 


buy  much  of  anything  that  was  worth  buying 
Harrison  Cressy  thought.  One  could  purchase 
only  the  worthless.  That  was  the  everlasting 
failure  of  money. 

He  remembered  the  boy's,  "I  love  Carlotta.  But 
I  don't  love  her  enough  to  let  her  or  you  buy  me." 
It  was  true.  Neither  he  nor  his  daughter  had  been 
able  to  purchase  the  lad's  integrity,  his  good  faith, 
his  ideals.  And  Harrison  Cressy  was  thankful 
from  the  bottom  of  his  heart  that  it  was  so. 

He  turned  his  steps  back  to  the  village  and  as  he 
did  so  an  oriole  flashed  out  of  the  shrubbery  near 
him,  and  passed  like  a  flame  out  of  sight  among 
the  trees.  This  was  a  good  sign.  Orioles  had 
nested  every  year  in  the  maple  tree  by  the  little 
white  house  where  Carlotta  had  been  born.  Car- 
lotta herself  had  always  loved  them.  "Pretty, 
pretty,  birdie!"  she  had  been  wont  to  call  out. 
"Come,  daddy,  let's  follow  him  and  see  where  he 
goes." 

He  would  go  home  and  tell  Carlotta  all  this, 
make  her  see  that  her  happiness  was  in  her  own 
hands.  No,  it  was  the  boy's  story.  If  Carlotta 
would  not  follow  the  orioles  and  her  own  heart  for 
Philip  Lambert  she  would  not  for  any  argument 
of  his. 

By  this  time  a  distant  puff  of  smoke  gave  evi- 
dence that  the  Boston  train  was  already  on  its  way, 
leaving  Harrison  Cressy  in  Dunbury.  Not  that 
he  cared.  He  had  business  still  to  transact  ere 
he  departed,  a  new  battle  to  fight.  He  walked  with 
the  firm  elastic  step  of  a  youth  back  to  town. 
What  did  it  matter  if  you  were  sixty-nine  when 
the  best  things  of  life  were  still  ahead  of  you? 

Accordingly  Phil  was  a  second  time  that  day 
surprised  by  the  unheralded  arrival  of  Carlotta's 
father,  a  rather  dusty,  weary  and  limp-looking 
gentleman  this  time,  but  exuding  a  sort  of  be- 


HARRISON  CRESSY  REVERTS  229 

nignant  serenity  that  had  not  been  there  early 
in  the  day. 

"Hello,"  greeted  the  millionaire  blandly.  "Mis- 
sed my  train — got  to  browsing  round  the  town  like 
an  old  billy  goat.  Not  sorry  though.  It  is  a  nice 
little  town.  Mind  if  I  sit  down?  I'm  a  bit  blown." 
And  dropping  on  a  stool  Mr.  Cressy  fanned  himself 
with  his  panama  and  grinned  at  Philip,  a  grin 
the  young  man  could  not  quite  fathom.  What 
new  trick  had  the  clever  old  financier  at  the  bottom 
of  hfs  mind?  Phil  hoped  he  had  not  got  to  go 
through  the  thing  again.  Once  had  been  quite 
enough  for  one  day. 

"Let  me  send  out  for  something  cool  to  drink, 
Mr.  Cressy.  You  must  be  horribly  hot.  It  is 
warm  in  here,  even  with  all  the  fans  going.  Hi, 
there,  Tommy!"  Philip  summoned  a  freckled, 
red-haired  youth  from  somewhere  in  the  back- 
ground. "Run  over  to  Greene's  and  get  a  lemon- 
ade for  this  gentleman,  will  you?" 

"Right,  Mr.  Phil."  The  boy  saluted— an  odd 
salute,  Mr.  Cressy  noted.  It  was  rendered  with 
the  right  hand,  the  three  middle  fingers  held  up, 
the  thumb  bent  over  touching  the  nail  of  the  little 
finger.  The  saluter  stood  very  straight  as  he  went 
through  the  ceremony  and  looked  very  serious 
about  it.  "Queer!"  thought  the  onlooker.  The 
messenger  boys  he  knew  did  not  behave  like  that 
when  you  gave  them  an  order. 

Philip  excused  himself  to  attend  to  a  customer 
and  in  a  moment  the  red-haired  lad  was  back  with 
a  tall  glass  of  lemonade  clinking  delightfully  with 
ice.  Mr.  Cressy  took  it  and  set  it  down  on  the 
counter  while  he  fumbled  for  his  wallet  and  pro- 
duced a  dollar  bill. 

To  his  amazement  the  boy's  grin  faded,  and  he 
drew  himself  up  with  dignity. 

"No,  thank  you,  sir,"  he  said  to  the  proffered 


230  WILD  WINGS 


greenback.     "I'm  a  Scout  and  Scouts  don't  take 
tips." 

"What!"  gasped  Harrison  Cressy.  In  all  his 
life  he  did  not  recall  meeting  a  boy  who  ever  refused 
money  before.  He  began  to  think  there  was  some- 
thing uncanny  about  this  town  of  Dunbury.  First 
a  young  man  who  could  not  be  bought  at  any  price. 
And  now  a  boy  who  wouldn't  take  a  tip  for  service 
rendered. 

"I  said  I  was  a  Scout,"  repeated  the  lad 
patiently.  "And  Scouts  don't  take  tips.  We  are 
supposed  to  do  one  good  turn  every  day,  anyway, 
and  I  hadn't  gotten  mine  in  before.  I'm  only  a 
Tenderfoot  but  I'm  most  ready  for  my  second  class 
tests.  Mr.  Phil's  going  to  try  me  out  in  first  aid 
as  soon  as  he  gets  time." 

"Mr.  Phil!  What's  he  got  to  do  with  it?" 
inquired  Mr.  Cressy,  after  a  long,  satisfying  swig 
of  lemonade. 

"He  is  our  Scout-master  and  a  peach  of  a  one 
too.  He  is  going  to  take  us  on  a  hike  tomorrow." 

"Tomorrow?  Tomorrow  is  Sunday,  young  man." 
The  Methodist  in  Harrison  Cressy  rose  to  the 
surface. 

"I  know.  We  all  go  to  church  and  Sunday 
school  in  the  morning.  Mr.  Phil  won't  take  us  un- 
less we  do.  But  in  the  afternoon  he  thinks  it  is  all 
right  to  go  on  a  hike.  We  don't  practise  signaling 
and  things  like  that,  but  we  get  in  a  lot  of  nature 
study.  I  can  identify  all  my  ten  trees  now  and 
a  whole  lot  more  besides,  and  I've  got  a  bird  list 
of  over  sixty." 

"You  don't  say  so?"  Harrison  Cressy  was 
plainly  impressed.  "So  your  Mr.  Phil  gives  a  good 
deal  of  time  to  that  sort  of  thing,  does  he?"  he 
added,  his  eyes  seeking  Philip  Lambert  in  the 
distance. 

"Should  say  he  did.     I  guess  he  gives  about  all 


HARRISON  CRESSY  REVERTS  231 

the  time  he  has  outside  of  the  store.     He's  a  dandy 
Scout-master.     What  he  says  goes,  you  betcher." 

Remembering  the  scene  at  the  luncheon  table 
that  day,  Harrison  Cressy  thought  it  quite  probable. 
What  Philip  had  said  had  gone  "you  betcher"  on 
that  occasion  with  a  vengeance.  So  young  Lambert 
gave  his  off  hours  to  business  of  this  sort.  Most 
of  Carlotta's  male  friends  gave  most  of  theirs  to 
polo,  jazz,  and  chorus  girls.  He  began  to  covet 
Philip  more  than  ever  for  a  possible,  and  he  hoped 
probaJble,  son-in-law. 

It  played  into  his  purposes  excellently  that 
Philip  on  returning  invited  him  to  supper  on  the 
Hill  that  night.  He  wanted  to  meet  the  boy's 
people,  especially  the  mother.  Carlotta  had  told 
him  once  that  Philip's  mother  was  the  most 
wonderful  person  in  the  world. 

Seated  at  the  long  table  in  the  Lambert  dining- 
room  Harrison  Cressy  enjoyed  a  meal  such  as  his 
chef-ridden  soul  had  almost  forgotten  could  exist 
— a  meal  so  simple  yet  so  delectable  that  he 
dreamed  of  it  for  days  afterward. 

But  the  food,  excellent  as  it  was,  was  only  a 
small  part  of  the  significance  of  the  occasion.  It 
was  a  revelation  to  the  millionaire  to  know  that  a 
family  could  gather  around  the  board  like  this  and 
have  such  a  thoroughly  delightful  time  all  round. 
There  was  gay  talk  and  ready  laughter,  a  fine 
flavor  of  old-fashioned  courtesy  and  hospitality  and 
good  will  in  everything  that  was  said  or  done. 

The  Lambert  girls — the  pretty  twins  and  the 
younger,  slim  slip  of  a  lassie,  Elinor — were  charm- 
ing, fresh,  natural,  unspoiled,  very  different  from 
and  far  more  to  his  taste  than  most  of  the  young 
women  who  came  to  Crest  House — hot-house  pro- 
ducts, over-sophisticated,  cynical,  too  familiar  with 
rouge  and  cigarettes  and  the  game  of  love  and  lure, 
huntresses  more  or  less,  the  whole  pack  of  them. 


232  WILD  WINGS 


It  seemed  girls  could  still  be  plain  girls  on  this 
enchanted  Hill — girls  who  would  make  wonderful 
wives  some  day  for  some  lucky  men. 

But  the  mother!  She  was  the  secret  of  it  all, 
quite  as  remarkable  as  Carlotta  had  said.  She 
was  extraordinarily  well  read,  talked  well  on  a 
dozen  subjects  as  to  which  he  was  himself  but 
vaguely  informed,  and  she  was  evidently  even  more 
extraordinarily  busy.  There  was  talk  of  a  Better 
Babies  movement  in  which  she  was  interested,  of 
a  Red  Cross  Chapter  at  which  she  had  spent  the 
afternoon,  of  a  committee  meeting  of  the  local 
Woman's  Club  which  was  bringing  a  noted  English 
poet-lecturer  to  town.  There  were  Chatauqua 
plans  in  view,  and  a  new  children's  reading  room 
in  the  public  library  with  a  story-telling  hour  of 
which  Clare  was  to  be  in  charge.  A  hundred 
things  indicated  that  Mrs.  Lambert  was  by  no  means 
confined  to  the  four  walls  of  her  home  for  interests 
and  activities.  Yet  her  home  was  exquisitely  kept 
and  she  was  a  mother  first  of  all.  One  could  see 
that  every  moment.  It  was  "Mums,  this"  and 
"Mums,  that"  from  them  all.  The  life  of  the  home 
clearly  pivoted  about  her. 

Harrison  Cressy  found  himself  wishing  that  Car- 
lotta could  have  known  a  motherhood  like  that. 
Rose  had  gone  so  soon.  Carlotta  had  never  known 
what  she  missed.  Perhaps  Mr.  Cressy  himself  had 
not  known  until  he  saw  Mrs.  Lambert  and  realized 
what  a  mother  might  be.  Poor  Carlotta !  He  had 
given  her  a  great  deal.  At  least,  until  this,  after- 
noon, he  had  thought  he  had.  But  he  had  never 
given  her  anything  at  all  comparable  to  what  this 
quiet  village  store-keeper  and  his  wife  had  given 
to  their  son  and  daughters.  He  hadn't  had  it  to 
give.  He  had  been  poor,  after  all,  all  along. 
Though  he  hadn't  suspected  it  until  now. 

After  supper  Stuart  Lambert  had  slipped  quickly 


HARRISON  CRESSY  REVERTS  233 

away,  bidding  his  son  stay  up  on  the  Hill  a  little 
longer  with  their  guest.  Phil  had  demurred,  but 
had  been  quietly  overruled  and  had  acquiesced  per- 
force. Poor  Dad !  There  had  not  been  a  moment 
all  day  to  relieve  his  mind  about  Mr.  Cressy 's  offer. 
Not  once  had  the  father  and  son  been  alone.  Phil 
was  afraid  his  father  was  taking  the  thing  a  good 
deal  to  heart,  and  it  worried  him.  He  had  counted 
on  talking-it  over  together  as  they  went  back  to  the 
store  but  his  father  had  willed  otherwise. 

It  was  with  Carlotta's  father  instead  of  his  own 
that  Philip  talked  first  after  all. 

"See  here,  Philip,''  began  Mr.  Cressy  as  they 
descended  the  Hill  in  "Lizzie."  "I  went  at  this  all 
wrong.  So  did  Carlotta.  I  understand  better 
now.  I've  been  back  in  the  past  this  afternoon, 
remembering  what  it  means  to  live  in  the  country 
and  love  and  mate  there  in  the  good  old-fashioned 
way  as  Carlotta's  mother  and  I  did.  It  is  what  I 
want  her  to  do  with  you.  Do  you  get  that,  boy? 
I  want  her  to  come  to  Dunbury.  I  want  her  to 
have  a  piece  of  your  mother.  Carlotta  never  knew 
what  it  was  to  have  a  mother.  It  is  mostly  my 
fault  she  doesn't  see  any  clearer.  You  mustn't 
blame  her,  lad." 

"I  don't,"  said  Phil.     "I  love  her." 

"I  know  you  do.  And  she  loves  you.  Go  to  her. 
Make  her  see.  Make  her  marry  you  and  be  happy." 

Phil  wras  silent,  not  because  he  was  not  moved 
by  the  older  man's  plea  but  because  he  was  almost 
too  moved,  to  speak.  It  rather  took  his  breath  away 
to  have  Harrison  Cressy  on  his  side  like  this.  It 
was  almost  too  incredible,  and  yet  there  was  no 
mistaking  the  sincerity  in  the  other's  words  or  on 
his  face.  Carlotta's  father  did  want  Carlotta  to 
come  to  him  on  his  Hill. 

But  would  Carlotta  want  it?  That  was  the 
question.  For  himself  he  sought  no  higher  road 


234  WILD  WINGS 


to  follow  than  the  one  where  his  father  and  mother 
had  blazed  the  trail  through  fair  weather  and 
stormy  these  many  years.  But  would  Carlotta  be 
content  to  travel  so  with  him?  He  did  not  know. 
At  any  rate  he  could  ask  her,  try  once  more  to  make 
her  see,  as  her  father  put  it. 

He  turned  to  his  companion  with  a  sober  smile 
at  this  point  in  his  reflections. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Cr*essy.  I  will  try  again  and  I 
know  it  is  going  to  make  a  great  deal  of  difference 
to  Carlotta — and  to  me — to  have  you  on  my  side. 
Perhaps  she  will  see  it  differently  this  time.  I — 
1  hope  so." 

"Lord,  boy,  so  do  I !"  groaned  Mr.  Cressy.  "You 
will  come  back  to  Crest  House  tomorrow  with  me?" 

Phil  hesitated,  considered,  shook  his  head. 

"I'll  come  next  Saturday.  I  can't  get  away  to- 
morrow," he  said. 

"Why  not?  For  the  Lord's  sake,  boy,  get  it 
over !" 

Phil  smiled  but  shook  his  head.  He  too  wanted 
to  get  it  over.  He  could  hardly  wait  to  get  to  Car- 
lotta, would  have  started  that  moment  if  he  could 
have  done  so.  But  there  were  clear-cut  reasons 
why  he  could  not  go  tomorrow,  obligations  that 
held  him  fast  in  Dunbury. 

"I  can't  go  tomorrow  because  I  have  promised 
my  boys  a  hike,"  he  explained. 

Harrison  Cressy  nearly  exploded. 

"Heavens,  man!  What  does  a  parcel  of  kids 
amount  to  when  it  comes  to  getting  you  a  wife? 
You  can  call  off  your  hike,  can't  you?" 

"I  could,  but  it  would  be  hard  on  a  good  many  of 
them.  They  count  on  it  a  good  deal.  Some  of  them 
have  given  up  other  pleasures  they  might  have 
had  on  account  of  it.  Tommy  has,  for  instance. 
His  uncle  asked  him  to  go  to  Worcester  with 
him  in  his  car,  and  he  refused  because  of  his 


HARRISON  CRESSY  REVERTS  235 

date  with  me.  They  are  all  bribed  to  church  and 
Sunday  School  by  the  means.  One  of  the  things 
Scouting  stands  for  is  sticking  to  your  job  and  your 
word.  I  don't  think  it  is  exactly  up  to  the  Scout- 
master to  dodge  his  responsibilities  when  he 
preaches  the  other  kind  of  thing.  Of  course,  if  it 
were  a  life  and  death  matter,  it  would  be  different. 
It  isn't.  I  have  waited  a  good  many  weeks  to  see 
Carlotta.  I  can  wait  one  more." 

Harrison  Cressy  grunted.  He  hardly  knew 
whether  to  fly  into  a  rage  with  this  extraordinary 
young  man  or  to  clap  him  on  the  back  and  tell  him 
he  liked  him  better  and  better  every  minute.  He 
contented  himself  by  repeating  a  remark  he  had 
made  earlier  in  the  day. 

"You  are  a  darn  fool,  young  man."  Then  he 
added,  half  against  his  will,  "But  I  like  your  darn- 
foolness,  hang  me  if  I  don't !" 

Phil  had  a  strenuous  two  hours  in  the  store  with 
never  a  minute  to  get  at  his  father.  It  was  not 
until  the  last  customer  had  departed,  the  last  clerk 
fled  away  and  the  clock  striking  eleven  that  the 
father  and  son  were  alone. 

Philip  came  over  to  where  the  older  man  stood. 
His  heart  smote  him  when  he  saw  how  utterly  worn 
and  weary  the  other  looked,  as  if  he  had  suddenly 
added  a  full  ten  years  to  his  age  since  morning. 
His  characteristic  buoyancy  seemed  to  have  de- 
serted him  for  once. 

"Dad,  I've  not  had  a  minute  alone  with  you  all 
day.  I  am  sorry  Mr.  Cressy  bothered  you  about 
that  blue  sky  proposition  of  his.  I  never  would 
have  let  him  if  I  had  known.  Of  course  there  was 
nothing  in  it.  I  didn't  consider  it  for  a  minute." 

Stuart  Lambert  smiled  wearily  and  sat  down  on 
the  counter. 

"I  am  afraid  you  have  given  up  more  than  we 
realized,  Philip,  in  coming  into  the  store.  Mr. 


236  WILD  WINGS 


Cressy  gave  me  a  glimpse  into  things  that  I  knew 
nothing  about.     You  should  have  told  us." 

"There  was  nothing  to  tell.  I've  given  up  noth- 
ing that  was  mine.  I  told  Carlotta  all  along  she 
would  have  to  come  to  me.  I  couldn't  come  to  her. 
My  whole  life  is  here  with  you.  It  is  what  I  have 
wanted  ever  since  I  had  the  sense  to  want  anything 
but  to  enjoy  my  fool  self.  But  even  then  I  didn't 
appreciate  what  it  would  be  like  to  be  here  with  you. 
I  couldn't,  till  I  had  tried  it  and  found  out  first 
hand  what  kind  of  a  man  my  dad  was.  I  am  ab- 
solutely satisfied.  If  Mr.  Cressy  had  offered  me  a 
million  a  year  I  wouldn't  have  taken  it.  It 
wouldn't  have  been  the  slightest  temptation  even 

'  he  smiled  a  little  sadly — "even  with  Carlotta 
thrown  in.  I  don't  want  to  get  Carlotta  that  way." 

"You  say  you  are  satisfied,  Philip.  Maybe  that 
is  so.  But  you  are  not  happy." 

"I  wasn't,  just  at  first.  I  was  a  fool.  I  let  the 
thing  swamp  me  for  awhile.  Mums  helped  pull  me 
out  of  the  slough  and  since  then  I've  been  finding 
out  that  happiness  is — well,  a  kind  of  by-product. 
Like  the  kingdom  of  heaven  it  doesn't  come  for  ob- 
servation. I  have  had  about  as  much  happiness 
here  with  you,  and  with  Mums  and  the  girls  at 
home,  and  with  my  Scouts  in  the  woods,  as  I  de- 
serve, maybe  more.  I'm  going  to  try  to  get  Car- 
lotta. I  haven't  given  up  hope.  I'm  going  down 
to  Sea  View  next  week  to  ask  her  again  and  maybe 
things  will  be  different  this  time.  Her  father  is 
on  my  side  now,  which  is  a  great  help.  He  has 
got  the  Holiday  Hill  viewpoint  all  at  once.  He 
wants  Carlotta  to  come  to  me — us.  So  do  I,  with 
all  my  heart.  But  whether  she  does  or  doesn't,  I 
am  here  with  you  as  long  as  you  want  me,  first 
last  and  all  the  time  and  glad  to  be.  Please  believe 
that,  Dad,  always." 

Stuart  Lambert  rose. 

\ 


HARRISON  CRESSY  REVERTS  237 

"Philip,  you  don't  know  what  it  means  to  me 
to  hear  you  say  this."  There  was  a  little  break 
in  the  older  man's  voice,  the  suggestion  of  pent 
emotion.  "It  nearly  killed  me  to  think  I  ought  to 
give  you  up.  You  are  sure  you  are  not  making 
too  much  of  a  sacrifice?" 

"Dad!  Please  don't  say  that  word  to  me. 
There  isn't  any  sacrifice.  It  is  what  I  want.  I 
haven't  been  a  very  good  son  always.  Even  this 
summer  I  am  afraid  I  haven't  come  up  to  all  you 
expected  of  me,  especially  just  at  first  when  I  was 
wrapped  up  in  myself  and  my  own  concerns  too 
much  to  see  that  doing  a  good  job  in  the  store  was 
only  a  small  part  of  what  I  was  here  in  Dunbury  to 
do.  But  anyway  I  am  prouder  than  I  can  tell  you 
to  be  your  son  and  I  am  going  to  try  my  darndest 
to  live  up  to  the  sign  if  you  will  let  me  stay  on  be- 
ing the  minor  part  of  it." 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  his  father  took  it. 
There  were  tears  in  the  older  man's  eyes.  A 
moment  later  the  store  was  dark  as  the  two  passed 
out  shoulder  to  shoulder  beneath  the  sign  of 
STUART  LAMBERT  AND  SON. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE   DUNBURY   CURE 

HARRISON  CRESSY  awoke  next  morning  to  the 
cheerful  chirrup  of  robins  and  the  pleasant  far-off 
sound  of  church  bells.  He  liked  the  bells.  They 
sounded  different  in  the  country  he  thought.  You 
couldn't  hear  them  in  the  city  anyway.  There 
were  too  many  noises  to  distract  you.  There  was 
no  Sabbath  stillness  in  the  city.  For  that  matter 
there  wasn't  much  Sabbath. 

He  got  up  out  of  bed  and  went  and  looked  out 
of  the  window.  There  was  a  heavenly  hush  every- 
where. It  was  still  very  early.  It  had  been  the 
Catholic  bells  ringing  for  mass  that  he  had  heard. 
The  dew  was  a-dazzle  on  every  grass  blade.  The 
robins  hopped  briskly  about  at  their  business  of 
worm-gathering.  The  morning  glories  all  in  fresh 
bloom  climbed  cheerfully  over  the  picket  fence.  He 
hadn't  seen  a  morning  glory  in  years.  It  set  him 
dreaming  again,  took  him  back  to  his  boyhood  days. 

If  only  Carlotta  would  be  sensible  and  yield  to 
the  boy's  wooing.  Dunbury  had  cast  a  kind  of 
spell  upon  him.  He  wanted  his  daughter  to  live 
here.  He  wanted  to  come  here  to  visit  her.  In 
his  imagination  he  saw  himself  coming  to  Carlotta's 
home — not  too  big  a  home — just  big  enough  to  live 
and  grow  in  and  raise  babies  in.  He  saw  himself 
playing  with  Carlotta's  little  golden-haired  violet- 
eyed  daughters,  and  walking  hand  in  hand  with 
her  small  son  Harrison,  just  such  a  sturdy,  good- 

238 


THE  DUNBURY  CURE  239 

looking,  wide-awake  youngster  as  Philip  Lambert 
had  no  doubt  been.  Harrison  Cressy's  mind  dwelt 
fondly  upon  this  grandson  of  his.  That  was  a  boy 
indeed ! 

Carlotta's  son  should  not  be  permitted  to  grow 
up  a  money  grubber.  There  wrould  be  money  of 
course.  One  couldn't  very  well  avoid  that  under 
the  circumstances.  The  boy  would  be  trained  to 
the  responsibilities  of  being  Harrison  Cressy's  heir. 
But  he  should  be  taught  to  see  things  in  their  true 
values  and  proportions.  He  must  not  grow  up 
money-blinded  like  Carlotta.  He  should  know  that 
money  was  good — very  good.  But  he  should  know 
it  was  not  the  chief  good,  was  never  for  an  instant 
to  be  classed  with  the  abiding  things — the  real 
things,  not  to  be  purchased  at  a  price. 

Mr.  Cressy  sighed  a  little  at  that  point  and  crept 
back  to  bed.  It  occurred  to  him  he  would  have  to 
leave  this  latter  *part  of  his  grandson's  education 
to  the  Lambert  side  of  the  family.  That  was  their 
business,  just  as  the  money  part  was  his. 

He  fell  asleep  again  and  presently  re-awoke  in 
a  kind  of  shivering  panic.  What  if  Carlotta  would 
not  marry  Philip  after  all?  What  if  it  was  too  late 
already?  What  if  his  grandson  turned  out  to  be 
a  second  Herbert  Lathrop,  an  unobjectionable, 
possibly  even  an  objectionable  ass.  Perspiration 
beaded  on  the  millionaire's  brow.  Why  was  that 
young  idiot  on  the  Hill  waiting?  What  were 
young  men  made  of  nowadays?  Didn't  Philip  Lam- 
bert know  that  you  could  lose  a  woman  forever 
if  you  didn't  jump  lively?  Hanged  if  he  wouldn't 
call  the  boy  this  minute  and  tell  him  he  just  had  to 
change  his  mind  and  go  to  Crest  House  that  very 
morning  without  a  moment's  delay.  Delay  might 
be  fatal.  Harrison  Cressy  sat  up  in  bed,  fumbled 
for  his  slippers,  shook  his  head  gloomily  and  re- 
turned to  his  place  under  the  covers. 


240  WILD  WINGS 


It  wasn't  any  use.  He  might  as  well  give  up. 
He  couldn't  make  Philip  Lainbtert  do  anything  he 
did  not  want  to  do.  He  had  tried  it  twice  and 
failed  ignominiously  both  times.  He  wouldn't 
tackle  it  again.  The  boy  was  stronger  than  he 
was.  He  had  to  lie  back  and  let  things  take  their 
course  as  best  they  might. 

"Cheer  up!  Cheer  up!"  counseled  the  robins 
outside,  but  millionaire  Cressy  heeded  not  their 
injunctions.  The  balloon  of  his  hopes  lay  pricked 
and  flat  in  the  dust. 

He  rose,  dressed,  breakfasted  and  discovered 
there  was  an  eleven  o'clock  train  for  Boston.  He 
discovered  also  that  he  hadn't  the  slightest  wish 
to  take  it.  He  did  not  want  to  go  to  Boston.  He 
did  not  want  to  go  to  Crest  House.  And  very  par- 
ticularly and  definitely  he  did  not  want  to  see  his 
daughter  Carlotta.  Carlotta  might  ferret  out  his 
errand  to  Dunbury  and  be  bitterly  angry  at  his 
interference  with  her  affairs.  Even  if  she  were  not 
angry  how  could  he  meet  her  without  telling  her 
everything,  including  things  that  were  the  boy's 
right  to  tell?  It  was  safer  to  stay  away  from  Crest 
House  entirely.  That  was  it.  He  would  telegraph 
Carlotta  his  gout  was  worse,  that  he  had  gone  to 
the  country  to  take  a  cure.  He  would  be  home 
Saturday. 

Immensely  heartened  he  dispatched  the  wire. 
By  this  time  it  was  ten-thirty  and  the  dew  on  the 
grass  was  all  dry,  the  morning  glories  shut  tight 
and  the  robins  vanished.  The  church  bells  were 
ringing  again  however  and  Harrison  Cressy  decided 
to  go  to  church,  the  white  Methodist  church  on  the 
common.  He  wouldn't  meet  any  of  the  Hill  people 
there.  The  Holidays  were  Episcopal,  the  Lam- 
berts Unitarian — a  loose,  heterodox  kind  of  creed 
that.  He  wished  Phil  were  Methodist.  It  would 
have  given  him  something  to  go  by.  Then  he 


THE  DUNBURY  CURE  241 

grinned  a  bit  sheepishly  at  his  own  expense  and 
shook  his  head.  He  had  had  the  Methodist  creed 
to  go  by  himself  and  much  good  had  it  done  him. 
Maybe  it  did  not  make  so  much  difference  what  you 
believed.  It  was  how  you  acted  that  mattered. 
Why  that  was  Unitarianism  itself,  wasn't  it? 
Queer.  Maybe  there  was  something  in  it  after  all. 

Seated  in  the  little  church  Harrison  Cressy 
hardly  listened  to  the  preacher's  droning  voice. 
He  followed  his  own  trend  of  thought  instead,  re- 
calling long-forgotten  scriptural  passages.  "What 
shall  it  profit  a  man  though  he  gain  the  whole  world 
and  lose  his  own  soul?"  was  one  of  the  recur- 
ring phrases.  He  applied  it  to  Philip  Lambert, 
applied  it  sadly  to  himself  and  with  a  shake  of  his 
head  to  his  daughter,  Carlotta.  He  remembered 
too  the  story  of  the  rich  young  man.  Had  he  made 
Carlotta  as  the  rich  young  man,  cumbered  her  with 
so  many  worldly  possessions  and  standards  that 
by  his  own  hand  he  was  keeping  her  out  of  the 
heaven  of  happiness  she  might  have  otherwise  in- 
herited? He  feared  so. 

He  bowed  his  head  with  the  others  but  he  did  not 
pray.  He  could  not.  He  was  too  unhappy.  And 
yet  who  knows?  Perhaps  his  unwonted  clarity  of 
vision  and  humility  of  soul  were  acceptable  that 
morning  in  lieu  of  prayer  to  Sandalphon. 

As  he  ate  his  solitary  dinner  his  despondency 
grew  upon  him.  He  felt  almost  positive  Philip 
would  fail  in  his  mission,  that  Carlotta  would  go 
her  willful  way  to  regret  and  disillusionment,  and 
all  these  things  gone  irretrievably  wrong  would  be 
at  bottom  his  own  fault. 

Later  he  endeavored  to  distract  himself  from  his 
dreaiy  thoughts  by  discoursing  with  his  neighbor 
on  the  veranda,  a  tall,  grizzled,  soldierly  looking 
gentleman  with  shrewd  but  kind  eyes  and  the  brow 
of  a  scholar. 


242  WILD  WINGS 


As  they  talked  desultorily  a  groop  of  khaki  clad 
youngsters  filed  past,  Philip  Lambert  among  them, 
looking  only  an  older  and  taller  boy  in  their  midst. 
The  lads  looked  happy,  alert,  vigorous,  were  of 
clean,  upstanding  type,  the  pick  of  the  town  it 
seemed  probable  to  Harrison  Cressy  who  said  as 
much  to  his  companion. 

The  other  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"You  are  mistaken,  sir,"  he  said.  "Three  months 
ago  most  of  those  fellows  were  riffraff — the  kind 
that  hang  around  street  corners  smoking  and  in- 
dulging in  loose  talk  and  profanity.  Young  Lam- 
bert, the  chap  with  them,  their  Scout-master,  picked 
that  kind  from  choice,  turned  down  a  respectable 
church-mothered  bunch  for  this  one,  left  the  other 
for  a  man  who  wanted  an  easier  row  to  hoe.  It 
was  some  stunt,  as  the  boys  say.  It  took  a  man 
like  Phil  Lambert  to  put  it  through.  He  has  the 
crowd  where  he  wants  them  now  though.  They 
would  go  through  fire  and  water  if  he  led  them  and 
he  is  a  born  leader." 

Harrison  Cressy's  eyes  followed  the  departing 
group.  Here  was  a  new  light  on  his  hoped-for 
son-in-law.  So  he  picked  "publicans-  and  sinners" 
to  eat  with.  Mr.  Cressy  rather  liked  that.  He 
hated  snobs  and  pharisees,  couldn't  stomach  either 
brand. 

"It  means  a  good  deal  to  a  town  like  this  when 
its  college-bred  boys  come  back  and  lend  a  hand  like 
that,"  the  other  man  went  on.  "So  many  of  them 
rush  off  to  the  cities  thinking  there  isn't  scope 
enough  for  their  ineffable  wisdom  and  surpassing 
talents  in  their  own  home  town.  A  number  of 
people  prophesied  that  young  Lambert  would  do 
the  same  instead  of  settling  down  with  his  father 
as  we  all  wanted  him  to  do.  I  wasn't  much  afraid 
of  that  myself.  Phil  has  sense  enough  to  see  rather 
straight  usually.  He  did  about  that.  And  then 


THE  DUNBURY  CURE  243 

the  kickers  put  up  a  howl  that  he  had  a  swelled 
head,  felt  above  the  rest  of  Dunbury  because  he 
had  a  college  education  and  his  father  was  getting 
to  be  one  of  the  most  prosperous  men  in  town. 
They  complained  he  wouldn't  go  in  for  things  the 
rest  of  the  town  was  interested  in,  kept  to  himself 
when  he  was  out  of  the  store.  There  were  some 
grounds  for  the  kick  I  will  admit.  But  it  wasn't 
a  month  before  he  got  his  bearings,  had  his  head 
out  of  the  clouds  and  was  in  the  thick  of  everything. 
They  Swear  by  him  now  almost  as  much  as  they  do 
by  his  father  which  is  saying  a  good  deal  for  Dun- 
bury  has  revolved  about  Stuart  Lambert  for  years. 
It  is  beginning  to  revolve  about  Stuart  Lambert 
and  Son  now.  But  I  am  boring  you  with  all 
this.  Phil  happens  to  be  rather  a  favorite  of 
mine." 

"You  know  him  well?"  questioned  Mr.  Cressy. 

"I  ought  to.  I  am  Robert  Caldwell,  principal 
of  the  High  School  here,  I've  known  Phil  since 
he  was  in  knickerbockers  and  had  him  under  my 
direct  eye  for  four  years.  He  kept  my  eye  suf- 
ficiently busy  at  that,"  he  added  with  a  smile. 
"There  wasn't  much  mischief  that  youngster  and 
a  neighbor  of  his,  young  Ted  Holiday,  didn't  get 
into.  Maybe  that  is  why  he  is  such  a  success  with 
the  black  sheep,"  he  added  with  a  nod  in  the  di- 
rection in  which  the  khaki-clad  lads  had  gtme. 

"H-mm,"  observed  Mr.  Cressy.  "I  am  rather 
glad  to  hear  all  this.  You  see  it  happens  that  I 
came  to  Dunbury  to  offer  Philip  Lambert  a 
position.  My  name's  Cressy — Harrison  Cressy," 
he  explained. 

His  companion  lifted  his  eye-brows  a  little 
dubiously. 

"I  see.  I  didn't  know  I  was  discussing  a  young 
man  you  knew  well  enough  to  offer  a  position  to. 
May  I  ask  if  he  accepted  it?" 


244  WILD  WINGS 


"He  did  not,"  admitted  Harrison  Cressy  grimly. 

"Turned  it  down,  eh?"  The  school  man  looked 
interested. 

"Turned  it  down,  man?  He  made  the  propo- 
sition look  flatter  than  a  last  year's  pan-cake  and 
it  was  a  mighty  good  proposition.  At  least  I 
thought  it  was,"  the  magnate  added  with  a  faint 
grin  remembering  all  that  went  with  that 
proposition. 

Kobert  Caldwell  smiled.  He  rather  liked  the 
idea  of  one  of  his  boys  making  a  proposition  of 
millionaire  Cressy's  look  like  a  last  year's  pan-cake. 
It  was  what  he  would  have  expected  of  Phil 
Lambert. 

"I  am  sorry  for  you,  Mr.  Cressy,"  he  said.  "But 
I  am  glad  for  Dunbury.  Philip  is  the  kind  we 
need  right  here." 

"He  is  the  kind  we  need  right  everywhere," 
grunted  Mr.  Cressy.  "Only  we  can't  get  'em. 
They  aren't  for  sale." 

"No,"  agreed  Robert  Caldwell.  "They  are  not 
for  sale.  Ah,  the  Boston  train  must  be  in.  There 
is  the  stage." 

Mr.  Cressy  allowed  his  eyes  to  stray  idly  to  the 
arriving  bus  and  the  descending  passengers. 

Suddenly  he  stiffened. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  ejaculated,  an  exclamation 
called  forth  by  the  fact  that  the  last  person  to 
alight  from  the  bus  was  a  slim  young  person  in 
a  trim,  tailored,  navy  blue  suit  and  a  tiny  black 
velvet  toque  whose  air  bespoke  Paris,  a  person  with 
eyes  which  were  precisely  the  color  of  violets  which 
grow  in  the  deepest  woods. 

A  little  later  Harrison  Cressy  sat  in  a  deep 
leather  upholstered  chair  in  his  bedroom  with  his 
daughter  Carlotta  in  his  lap. 

"Don't  try  to  deceive  me,  Daddy  darling,"  Car- 
lotta was  saying.  "You  were  worried — dreadfully 


THE  DUNBURY  CURE  245 

worried  because  your  little  Carlotta  wept  salt 
tears  all  over  your  shirt  bosom.  You  thought  that 
Carlotta  must  not  be  allowed  to  be  unhappy. 
Wars,  earthquakes,  ship  sinkings,  wrecks — any- 
thing might  be  allowed  to  go  on  as  usual  but  not 
Carlotta  unhappy.  You  thought  that,  didn't  you, 
Daddy  darling?" 

Daddy  darling  pleaded  guilty. 

"Of  course  you  did,  you  old  dear.  The  moment 
I  knew  you  were  in  Dunbury  I  knew  what  you  were 
up  tcr.  I  understand  perfectly  how  your  mind 
works.  I  ought  to.  Mine  works  very  much  the 
same  way.  It  is  a  simple  three  stage  operation. 
First  we  decide  we  want  a  thing.  Next  we  decide 
the  surest,  quickest  way  to  get  it  and  third — we 
get  it.  At  least  we  usually  do.  We  must  do  our- 
selves that  much  justice,  must  we  not,  Daddy 
darling?" 

Daddy  darling  merely  grunted. 

"You  came  to  Dunbury  to  tell  Phil  he  had  to 
marry  me  because  I  was  in  love  with  him  and 
wanted  to  marry  him.  He  couldn't  very  well  marry 
me  and  keep  on  living  in  Dunbury  because  I 
wouldn't  care  to  live  in  Dunbury.  Therefore  he 
would  have  to  emigrate  to  a  place  I  would  care  to 
live  in  and  he  couldn't  very  well  do  that  unless  he 
had  a  very  considerable  income  because  spending 
money  was  one  of  my  favorite  sports  both  indoor 
and  outdoor  and  I  wouldn't  be  happy  if  I  didn't 
keep  right  on  playing  it  to  the  limit.  Therefore, 
again,  the  very  simple  solution  of  the  whole  thing 
was  for  you  to  offer  Phil  a  suitable  salary  so  that 
we  could  marry  at  once  and  live  in  the  suitable 
place  and  say,  'Go  to  it.  Bless  you  my  children. 
Bring  on  your  wedding  bells — I  mean  bills.  I'll 
foot  'em.'  Put  in  the  rough,  that  was  the  plan 
wasn't  it,  my  dear  parent?" 

"Practically,"  admitted  the  dear  parent  with  a 


246  WILD  WINGS 


wry    grin.    "How     did    you     work    it    out    so 
accurately?" 

Carlotta  made  a  face  at  him. 
"I  worked  it  out  so  accurately  because  it  was  all 
old  stuff.     The  plan  wasn't  at  all  original  with 
you.     I  drew  the  first  draft  of  it  myself  last  June 
up  on  the  top  of  Mount  Tom,  took  Phil  up  there  on 
purpose  indeed  to  exhibit  it  to  him." 
"Humph!"   muttered  Harrison   Cressy. 
"Unfortunately  Phil  didn't  at  all  care  for  the 
exhibit  because  it  happened  that  I  had  fallen  in 
love  with  a  man  instead  of  a  puppet.     I  could  have 
told  you  coming  to  Dunbury  was  no  earthly  use 
if  you  had  consulted  me.     Phil  did  not  take  to  your 
plan,  did  he?" 
"He  did  not." 

"And  he  told  you — he  didn't  care  for  me  any 
more?"     Carlotta's  voice  was  suddenly  a  little  low 
"He  did  not.     In  fact  I  gathered  he  was  fair-to- 
middling  fond  of  you  still,  in  spite  of  your  abom- 
inable behavior." 

"Phil,  didn't  .say  I  had  behaved  abominably 
Daddy.  You  know  he  didn't.  He  might  think 
it  but  he  wouldn't  ever  say  it — not  to  you  any- 
way." 

"He  didn't.  That  is  my  contribution  and 
opinion.  Carlotta,  I  wish  to  the  Lord  Harry  you 
would  marry  Philip  Lambert!" 

Carlotta's  lovely  eyes  flashed  surprise  and  de- 
light before  she  lowered  them. 

"But,  Daddy,"  she  said.  "He  hasn't  got  very 
much  money.  And  it  takes  a  great  deal  of  money 
for  me." 

"You  had  better  learn  to  get  along  with  less 
then,"  snapped  Harrison  Cressy.     "I  tell  you,  Car- 
lotta, money  is  nothing — the  stupidest,  most  use- 
less, rottenest  stuff  in  the  world." 
Carlotta  opened  her  eyes  very  wide. 


THE  DUNBURY  CURE  247 

"Is  that  what  you  thought  when  you  came  to 
Dunbury?"  she  asked  gravely. 

"No.  It  is  what  I  have  learned  to  think  since 
I  have  been  in  Dunbury." 

"But  you — you  wouldn't  want  me  to  live  here?" 
probed  Carlotta. 

"My  child,  I  would  rather  you  wrould  live  here 
than  any  place  in  the  whole  world.  I've  traveled 
a  million  miles  since  I  saw  you  last,  been  back  in 
the  past  with  your  mother.  Things  look  different 
to  me  HOW.  I  don't  want  what  I  did  for  you.  At 
least  what  I  want  hasn't  changed.  That  is  the 
same  always — your  happiness.  But  I  have 
changed  my  mind  as  to  what  makes  for  happiness." 

"I  am  awfully  glad,  Daddy  darling,"  sighed  Car- 
lotta snuggling  closer  in  his  arms.  "Because  I 
came  up  here  on  purpose  to  tell  you  that  I've 
changed  my  mind  too.  If  Dunbury  is  good  for  gout 
maybe — maybe  it  will  be  good  for  what  ails  me. 
Do  you  think  it  might,  Daddy?"  For  answer  he 
held  her  very  tight. 

"Do  you  mean  it,  child?  Are  you  here  to  tell 
that  lad  of  ytnirs  you  are  ready  to  come  up  his 
Hill  to  him?" 

"If — if  he  still  wants  me,"  faltered  Carlotta. 
"I'll  have  to  find  that  out  for  myself.  I'll  know 
as  soon  as  I  see  Phil.  There  won't  anything  have 
to  be  said.  I  am  afraid  there  has  been  too  much 
talking  already.  You  shouldn't  have  told  him  I 
cried,"  reproachfully. 

"How  could  I  help  it?  That  is,  how  the  deuce 
did  you  know  I  did?1'  floundered  the  trapped 
parent. 

"Daddy!  You  know  you  played  on  Phil's 
sympathy  every  way  you  could.  It  was  awful. 
At  least  it  would  have  been  awful  if  you  had  bought 
him  with  my  silly  tears  after  you  failed  to  buy  him 
with  your  silly  money.  But  he  didn't  give  in  even 


248  WILD  WINGS 


for  a  moment — even  when  you  told  him  I  cried, 
did  he?" 

"Not  even  then.  But  that  doesn't  mean  he 
doesn't  care.  He — " 

But  Carlotta's  hand  was  over  his  mouth  at  that. 
How  much  Phil  cared  she  wanted  to  hear  from 
nobody  but  from  Phil  himself. 

Philip  Lambert  found  a  queer  message  waiting 
for  him  when  he  came  in  from  his  hike.  Some 
mysterious  person  who  would  give  no  name  had 
telephoned  requesting  him  to  be  at  the  top  of  Sun- 
set Hill  at  precisely  seven  o'clock  to  hear  some 
important  information  which  vitally  concerned  the 
firm  of  Stuart  Lambert  and  Son. 

"Sounds  like  a  hoax  of  some  sort,"  remarked 
Phil.  "But  Lizzie  has  been  chafing  at  the  bit  all 
day  in  the  garage  and  I  don't  mind  a  ride.  Come 
on,  Dad,  let's  see  what  this  bunk  means." 

Stuart  Lambert  smiled  assent.  And  at  precisely 
seven  o'clock  when  dusk  was  settling  gently  over 
the  valley  and  the  glory  in  the  western  sky  was 
beginning  to  fade  into  pale  heliotrope  and  rose 
tints  Lizzie  brought  the  two  Lamberts  to  the  crest 
of  Sunset  Hill  where  another  car  waited,  a  hired 
car  from  the  Eagle  garage. 

From  the  tonneau  of  the  other  car  Harrison 
Cressy  stepped  out,  somewhat  ponderously,  fol 
lowed  by  some  one  else,  some  one  all  in  white  with 
hair  that  shone  pure  gold  even  in  the  gathering 
twilight 

Phil  made  one  leap  and  in  another  moment,  befon 
the  eyes  of  his  father  and  Carlotta's,  not  to  mention 
the  interested  stare  of  the  Eagle  garage  chauffeur, 
he  swept  his  far-away  princess  into  his  arms. 
There  was  no  need  of  anybody's  trying  to  make 
Carlotta  see.  Love  had  opened  her  eyes.  The  two 
fathers  smiled  at  each  other,  both  a  little  glad  and 
a  little  sad. 


THE  DUNBURY  CURE  249 

"Brother  Lambert,"  said  Mr.  Cressy.  "Suppose 
you  and  I  ride  down  the  hill.  I  rather  think  this 
spot  belongs  to  the  children." 

"So  it  seems/'  agreed  Stuart  Lambert.  "We 
will  leave  Lizzie  for  chaperone.  I  think  there  will 
be  a  moon  later." 

"Exactly.  There  always  was  a  moon,  I  believe. 
It  is  quite  customary." 

As  Stuart  Lambert  got  out  of  the  small  car 
Philip  and  Carlotta  came  to  him  hand-in-hand  like 
happy  -children. 

Carlotta  slipped  away  from  Phil,  put  out  both 
hands  to  his  father.  He  took  them  with  a  happy 
smile. 

"I  have  a  good  many  daughters,  my  dear,"  he 
said.  "But  I  have  always  wanted  to  welcome  one 
more.  Do  you  think  you  could  take  in  another 
Dad?" 

"I  know  I  could,"  said  Carlotta  lifting  her 
flower  face  to  him  for  a  daughterly  kiss. 

"Come,  come!  Where  do  I  come  in  on  this  deal? 
Where  is  my  son,  I'd  like  to  know?"  demanded 
Mr.  Cressy. 

"Eight  here  at  your  service — darnfooln'ess  and 
all,"  said  Phil  holding  out  his  hand. 

"Don't  rub  it  in,"  snapped  Harrison  Cressy, 
though  he  gripped  the  proffered  hand  hard. 
"Come  on,  Lambert.  This  is  no  place  for  us." 

And  the  two  fathers  went  down  the  hill  in  the 
hired  car  leaving  Lizzie  and  the  lovers  in  pos- 
session of  the  summit  with  the  world  which  the 
moon  was  just  turning  to  silver  at  their  feet. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

SEPTEMBER  CHANGES 

WHEN  September  came  Carlotta,  who  had  been 
ostensibly  visiting  Tony  though  spending  a  good 
deal  of  her  time  "in  the  moon  with  Phil"  as  she 
put  it,  departed  for  Crest  House,  carrying  Philip 
with  her  "for  inspection,"  as  he  dubbed  it  some- 
what ruefully.  He  wasn't  particularly  enamored 
of  the  prospect  of  being  passed  upon  by  Caiiotta's 
friends  and  relatives.  It  was  rather  incongruous 
when  you  came  to  think  of  it  that  the  lovely  Car- 
lotta, who  might  have  married  any  one  in  the 
world,  should  elect  an  obscure  village  store  keeper 
for  a  husband.  But  Carlotta  herself  had  no 
qualms.  She  was  shrewd  enough  to  know  that 
with  her  father  on  her  side  no  one  would  do  much 
disapproving.  And  in  any  case  she  had  no  fear 
that  any  one  even  just  looking  at  Phil  would 
question  her  choice.  Carlotta  was  not  the  woman 
to  choose  a  man  she  would  have  to  apologize  for. 
Phil  would  hold  his  own  with  the  best  of  them  and 
she  knew  it.  He  was  a  man  every  inch  of  him,  and 
what  more  could  any  woman  ask? 

Ted  went  up  for  his  examinations  and  came  back 
so  soberly  that  the  family  held  its  composite 
breath  and  wondered  in  secret  whether  he  could 
possibly  have  failed  after  all  his  really  heroic 
effort.  But  presently  the  word  came  that  he  had 
not  only  not  failed  but  had  rather  covered  himself 
with  glory.  The  Dean  himself,  an  old  friend  of 

250 


SEPTEMBER  CHANGES  251 

Doctor  Holiday's,  wrote  expressing  his  congratu- 
lations and  the  hope  that  this  performance  of  his 
nephew's  was  a  pledge  of  better  things  in  the  future 
and  that  this  fourth  Holiday  to  pass  through  the 
college  might  yet  reflect  credit  upon  it  and  the 
Holiday  name. 

Ted  himself  emphatically  disclaimed  all  praise 
whatsoever  in  the  matter  and  cut  short  his  uncle's 
attempt  at  expressing  his  appreciation  not  only  of 
the  successful  finish  of  the  examinations  but  the 
whole  summer's  hard  work  and  steadiness. 

"I  am  glad  if  you  are  satisfied,  Uncle  Phil,"  he 
said.  "But  there  isn't  any  credit  coming  to  me. 
It  w^as  the  least  I  could  do  after  making  such  a 
confounded  mess  of  things.  Let's  forget  it." 

But  Ted  Holiday  was  not  quite  the  same  un- 
thinking young  barbarian  in  September  that  he 
had  been  in  June.  Nobody  could  work  as  he  had 
worked  that  summer  without  gaining  something 
in  character  and  self-respect.  Moreover,  being 
constantly  as  he  wras  with  his  brother  and  uncle, 
he  would  have  been  duller  than  he  was  not  to  get 
a  "hunch,"  as  he  would  have  called  it,  of  what  it 
meant  to  be  a  Holiday  of  the  authentic  sort. 
Larry's  example  was  particularly  salutary.  The 
younger  Holiday  could  not  help  comparing  his  own 
weak-willed  irresponsibility  of  conduct  with  the 
older  one's  quiet  self-control  and  firmness  of 
principle.  Larry's  love  for  Ruth  was  the  real 
thing.  Ted  could  see  that,  and  it  made  his  own 
random,  ill-judged  attraction  to  Madeline  Taylor 
look  crude  and  cheap  if  nothing  worse.  He  hated 
to  remember  that  affair  in  Cousin  Emma's  garden. 
He  made  up  his  mind  there  would  be  no  more 
things  like  that  to  have  to  remember. 

"You  can  tell  old  Bob  Caldwell,"  he  wrote  from 
college  to  his  uncle,  "that  he'll  sport  no  more  cad- 
dies and  golf  balls  at  my  expense.  Flunking  is 


252  WILD  WINGS 


too  damned  expensive  every  way,  saving  your 
presence,  Uncle  Phil.  No  more  of  it  for  this  child. 
But  don't  get  it  into  your  head  I  am  a  violently  re- 
formed character.  I  am  nothing  of  the  kind  and 
don't  want  to  be.  If  I  see  any  signs  of  angel  pin- 
feathers  cropping  out  I'll  shave  'em.  I'd  hate 
to  be  conspicuously  virtuous.  All  the  same  if  I 
have  a  few  grains  more  sense  than  I  had  last  year 
they  are  mostly  to  your  credit.  Fact  is,  Uncle 
Phil,  you  are  a  peach  and  I  am  just  beginning  to 
realize  it,  more  fool  I." 

Tony  also  flitted  from  the  Hill  that  September 
for  her  new  work  and  life  in  the  big  city.     Rather 
against  her  will  she  had  ensconced  herself  in  a 
Student  Hostelry  where  Jean  Lambert,  Phil's  older 
sister,  had  been  living  several  years  very  happily, 
first  as  a  student  and  later  as  a  successful  il- 
lustrator.    Tony  had  objected  that  she  did  not  want 
anything  so  "schooly,"  and  that  the  very  fact  that 
Jean  liked  the  Hostelry  would  be  proof  positive 
that  she,  Tony,  wrould  not  like  it.     What  she  really 
wanted  to  do  was  either  to  have  a  studio  of  her  own 
or  accept  Felice  Norman's  invitation  to  make  her 
home  with  her.     Mrs.   Norman  was  a  cousin  of 
Tony's  mother,  a  charming  widow  of  wealth  and 
wide  social  connections  whom  Tony  had  always 
adored  and  admired  extravagantly.     Just  visiting 
her  had  always  been  like  taking  a  trip  to  fairy 
land  and  to  live  with  her — well,  it  would  be  just 
too  wonderful,  Tony  thought.     But  Doctor  Holi- 
day had  vetoed  decidedly  both  these  pleasant  and 
impractical  propositions.     Tony  was  far  too  young 
and  pretty  to  live  alone.     That  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion.    And  he  was  scarcely  more  willing  that  she 
should  go  to  Mrs.  Norman,  though  he  liked  the  lat- 
ter very  well  and  was  glad  that  his  niece  would 
have  her  to  go  to  in  any  emergency.     He  knew 
Tony,  and  knew  that  in  such  an  environment  as 


SEPTEMBER  CHANGES  253 

Mrs.  Norman's  home  offered  the  girl  would  all  but 
inevitably  drift  into  being  a  gay  little  social  but- 
terfly and  forget  she  ever  came  to  the  city  to  do 
serious  work.  Life  with  Mrs.  Norman  would  be 
"too  wonderful"  indeed. 

So  Tony  went  to  the  Hostelry  with  the  under- 
standing that  if  after  a  few  months'  trial  she  really 
did  dislike  it  as  much  as  she  declared  she  knew  she 
would  they  would  make  other  arrangements.  But 
rather  to  her  chagrin  she  found  herself  liking  the 
place  very  much  and  enjoying  the  society  of  the 
other  -girls  who  were  all  in  the  city  as  she  and  Jean 
were,  pursuing  some  art  or  other. 

The  dramatic  school  work  was  all  she  had  hoped 
and  more,  stimulating,  engrossing,  altogether  de- 
lightful. She  made  friends  easily  as  always, 
among  teachers  and  pupils,  slipped  naturally  here 
as  in  college  into  a  position  of  leadership.  Tony 
Holiday  was  a  born  queen. 

She  had  plenty  of  outside  diversion  too.  Cousin 
Felice  was  kind  and  delighted  to  pet  and  exhibit 
her  pretty  little  kinswoman.  There  were  fascinat- 
ing glimpses  into  high  society,  delightful  private 
dancing  parties  in  gorgeous  ball  rooms,  motor 
trips,  gay  theater  parties  in  resplendent  boxes, 
followed  by  suppers  in  brilliant  restaurants — all 
the  pomp  and  glitter  of  life  that  youth  loves. 

There  were  other  no  less  genuinely  happy  oc- 
casions spent  with  Dick  Carson,  way  up  near  the 
roof  in  the  theaters  and  opera  house  or  in  queer, 
fascinating  out-of-the-way  foreign  restaurants. 
The  two  had  the  jolliest  kind  of  time  together, 
always  like  two  children  at  a  picnic.  Tony  was 
very  nice  to  Dick  these  days.  He  kept  her  from 
being  too  homesick  for  the  Hill  and  anyway  she 
felt  a  wee  bit  sorry  for  him  because  he  did  not  know 
about  Alan  and  those  long  letters  which  came  so 
frequently  from  the  retreat  in  the  mountains  where 


254  WILD  WINGS 


the  latter  was  sketching.  She  knew  she  ought  to 
tell  Dick  how  far  things  had  gone  but  somehow 
she  couldn't  quite  drive  herself  to  do  it.  She 
didn't  want  to  hurt  him.  And  she  did  not  want  to 
banish  him  from  her  life.  She  wanted  him,  needed 
him  just  where  he  was,  at  her  feet,  and  never 
bothering  her  with  any  inconvenient  demands  or 
love-making.  It  was  selfish  but  it  was  true.  And 
in  any  case  it  would  be  soon  enough  to  worry  Dick 
when  Alan  came  back  to  town. 

And  then  without  warning  he  was  back,  very 
much  back.  And  with  his  return  the  pleasant 
nicely  balanced,  casual  scheme  of  things  which  she 
had  been  following  so  contentedly  was  knocked  sky 
high.  She  had  to  adjust  herself  to  a  new  heaven 
and  a  new  earth  with  Alan  Massey  the  center  of 
both.  In  her  delight  and  intoxication  at  having 
her  lover  near  her  again,  more  fascinating  and 
lover-like  than  ever,  Tony  lost  her  head  a  little, 
neglected  her  work,  snubbed  her  friends,  refused 
invitations  from  Dick  and  Cousin  Felice,  and  in- 
deed from  everybody  except  Alan.  She  went  every- 
where with  him,  almost  nowhere  without  him, 
spent  her  days  and  more  of  her  nights  than  was  at 
all  prudent  or  proper  in  his  absorbing  society,  had, 
in  short,  what  she  afterward  described  to  Carlotta 
as  a  "perfect  orgy  of  Alan." 

At  the  end  of  ten  days  she  called  a  halt,  sat  down 
and  took  honest  account  of  herself  and  her  pro- 
ceedings and  found  that  this  sort  of  thing  would 
not  do.  Alan  was  too  expensive  every  way.  She 
could  not  afford  so  much  of  him.  Accordingly 
with  her  usual  decision  and  frankness  she  explained 
the  situation  to  him  as  she  saw  it  and  announced 
that  henceforth  she  would  see  him  only  twice  a 
week  and  not  as  often  if  she  were  especially  busy. 

To  this  ultimatum  she  kept  rigidly  in  spite  of 
her  lover's  protests  and  pleas  and  threats.  She 


SEPTEMBER  CHANGES  255 

was  inexorable.  If  Alan  wanted  to  see  her  at  all 
he  must  do  it  on  her  terms.  He  yielded  perforce 
and  was  madder  over  her  than  ever,  feted  and  wor- 
shiped and  adored  her  inordinately  when  he  was 
with  her,  deluged  her  with  flowers  and  poetry  and 
letters  between  times,  called  her  up  daily  and 
nightly  by  telephone  just  to  hear  her  voice,  if  he 
might  not  see  her  face. 

So  superficially  Tony  conquered.  But  she  was 
not  over-proud  of  her  victory.  She  knew  that 
whether  she  saw  Alan  or  not  he  was  always  in  the 
under-current  of  her  thoughts  and  feelings.  In  the 
midst  of  other  occupations  she  caught  herself 
wondering  whether  he  had  written  her,  whether 
she  would  find  his  flowers  when  she  got  home,  where 
he  was,  what,  he  was  doing,  if  he  was  thinking  of 
her  as  she  of  him.  She  wanted  him  most  irration- 
ally when  she  forbade  his  coming  to  her.  She 
looked  forward  to  those  few  hours  spent  with  him 
as  the  only  time  when  she  was  fully  alive,  dreamed 
them  over  afterward,  knew  they  meant  a  hundred- 
fold more  to  her  than  those  she  spent  with  any 
other  man  or  woman.  She  wore  his  flowers,  pored 
over  his  long,  beautiful,  impassioned  letters,  de- 
voured the  books  of  poetry  he  sent  her,  danced 
with  him  as  often  and  as  long  as  she  dared,  gave 
her  soul  more  and  more  into  his  keeping,  the  more 
so  perhaps  in  that  he  was  so  tenderly  reverential 
of  her  body,  never  even  touching  her  lips  with  his, 
though  his  eyes  often  told  a  less  moderate  story. 

The  orgy  over  she  was  again  doing  well  with  her 
work  at  the  school.  She  knew  that.  Her  teachers 
praised  her  gifts  and  her  progress.  Without  any 
vanity  she  could  not  help  seeing  that  she  was  forg- 
ing ahead  of  others  who  had  started  even  with  her, 
had  more  real  talent  perhaps  than  most  of  those 
with  whom  she  worked  and  played.  But  she  took 
no  pride  in  these  things.  For  equally  clearly  she 


256  WILD  WINGS 


saw  that  she  was  not  doing  half  what  she  might 
have  done,  would  have  done,  had  there  been  no  Alan 
Massey  in  the  city  and  in  her  heart.  She  had  a 
divided  allegiance  and  a  divided  allegiance  is  a 
hard  thing  to  live  with  as  a  daily  companion. 

But  she  would  not  have  had  it  otherwise.  Not 
for  a  moment  did  she  ever  wish  to  go  back  to  those 
free  days  when  love  was  but  a  name  and  the  flame 
had  not  blown  so  dangerously  near. 

As  for  Alan  Massey  himself,  he  alternated  be- 
tween moods  which  were  starry  pinnacles  of  ecstasy 
and  others  which  were  bottomless  pits  of  despair. 
He  lived  for  two  things  only — his  hours  with  Tony 
and  his  work.  For  he  had  begun  to  paint  again, 
magnificently,  furiously,  with  all  his  old  power  and 
a  new  almost  godlike  one  added  to  it.  As  an  artist 
it  was  his  supreme  hour.  He  painted  as  he  had 
never  painted  before. 

His  love  for  Tony  ran  the  whole  gamut.  He 
loved  her  passionately,  found  it  exquisite  torture 
to  have  her  in  his  arms  when  they  danced  and  to 
have  still  to  bank  the  fires  which  consumed  him  and 
of  which  she  only  dimly  guessed.  He  loved  her 
humbly,  worshipfully  as  a  moth  might  look  to  a 
star.  He  loved  her  tenderly,  protectingly,  longed 
to  shield  her  by  his  own  might  from  all  griefs, 
troubles  and  petty  annoyances,  to  guard  her  day 
and  night,  lest  any  rough,  unlovely  or  unseemly 
thing  press  near  her  shining  sphere.  He  desired  to 
wrap  her  about  with  a  magic  mantle  of  beauty 
and  luxury  and  the  quintessence  of  life,  to  keep 
her  in  a  place  apart  as  he  kept  his  priceless  col- 
lection of  rubies  and  emeralds.  He  loved  her 
jealously,  was  sick  at  the  thought  that  some  other 
man  might  be  near  her  when  he  might  not,  might 
dance  with  her,  covet  her,  kiss  her.  He  hated 
all  men  because  of  her  and  particularly  he  hated 


SEPTEMBER  CHANGES  257 

with  black  hate  the  man  whom  he  was  wrrouging 
daily  by  his  silence,  his  cousin,  John  Massey. 

Beneath  all  this  strange,  sad  welter  of  emotion 
deeper  still  in  Alan  Massey's  heart  lay  the  tragic 
conviction  that  he  would  never  win  Tony,  that  his 
own  sins  would  somehow  rise  to  strike  at  him  like 
a  snake  out  of  the  grass.  He  had  lost  faith  in  his 
luck,  had  lost  it  strangely  enough  when  luck  had 
laid  at  his  feet  that  most  desirable  of  all  gifts,  Jim 
Boberts'  timely  death. 

In  .the  House  on  the  Hill,  things  were  very  quiet, 
missing  the  gay  presence  of  the  two  younger  Holi- 
days and  with  those  at  home  cumbered  with  cares 
and  perplexity  and  grief. 

Things  were  easier  for  Buth  than  for  Larry.  It 
was  less  difficult  for  her  to  play  the  part  of  quiet 
friendship  than  for  him,  partly  because  her  love 
was  a  much  less  tempestuous  affair  and  partly 
because  a  woman  nearly  always  plays  a  part  of 
any  kind  with  more  facility  than  a  man  does.  And 
Larry  Holiday  was  temperamentally  unfit  to  play 
any  part  whatsoever.  He  was  a  Yea-Yea  and  Nay- 
Nay  person. 

The  simplicity  of  the  girl's  role  was  also  very 
largely  created  by  her  lover's  rigid  self  control. 
She  took  her  cue  from  his  quietness  and  felt  that 
things  could  not  be  so  bad  after  all.  At  least  they 
were  together.  Neither  had  driven  the  other  awTay 
from  the  Hill  by  any  unconsidered  act  or  word. 
Euth  had  no  idea  that  being  with  her  under  the 
tormenting  circumstances  was  scarcely  undivided 
happiness  for  poor  Larry  or  that  her  peace  of  mind 
was  more  or  less  purchased  at  cost  of  his. 

Larry  kept  the  promise  he  had  made  to  his  uncle 
more  literally  than  the  latter  had  had  any  idea 
he  would  or  could.  He  never  sought  out  Euth's 
society,  was  never  alone  with  her  if  he  could  help 


258  WILD  WINGS 


it,  never  so  much  as  touched  her  hand.  Ruth  being 
a  very  human  and  feminine  little  person  sometimes 
wished  he  were  not  quite  so  consistently,  "Holi- 
dayish"  in  his  conduct.  She  missed  the  ardent 
gaze  of  those  wonderful  gray  eyes  which  he  now 
kept  studiously  averted  from  hers.  Privately  she 
thought  it  would  not  have  mattered  so  fearfully  if 
just  once  in  a  while  he  had  forgotten  the  ring.  Life 
was  very,  very  drab  when  you  never  forgot  and 
let  yourself  go  the  tiniest  little  bit.  Child  like 
little  Euth  never  guessed  that  a  man  like  Larry 
Holiday  does  not  dare  let  himself  go  the  tiniest 
little  bit,  lest  he  go  farther,  far  enough  to  regret. 

Doctor  Holiday  watching  in  silence*  out  of  the 
tail  of  his  eye  understood  better  what  was  going 
on  behind  his  nephew's  quiet  exterior  demeanor, 
and  wondered  sometimes  if  it  had  not  been  a  mis- 
take to  keep  the  boy  bound  to  the  wheel  like  that,  if 
he  should  not  rather  have  packed  him  off  to  the  ut- 
termost parts  of  the  earth,  far  away  from  the  little 
lady  with  the  wedding  ring  who  was  so  little  mar- 
ried. And  yet  there  was  Granny,  growing  per- 
ceptibly weaker  day  by  day,  clinging  pathetically 
to  Larry's  young  strength.  Poor  Granny!  And 
poor  Larry!  How  little  one  could  do  for  either! 

Ruth's  memory  did  not  return.  She  remembered, 
or  at  least  found  familiar,  books  she  had  read,  songs 
she  must  have  sung,  drifted  into  doing  a  hundred 
little  simple  everyday  things  she  must  have  done 
before,  since  they  came  to  her  with  no  effort.  She 
could  sew  and  knit  and  play  the  piano  exquisitely. 
But  all  this  seemed  rather  a  trick  of  the  fingers 
than  of  the  mind.  The  people,  the  places,  the  life 
that  lay  behind  that  crash  on  the  Overland  never 
returned  to  her  consciousness  for  all  her  anxious 
struggle  to  get  them  back. 

It  began  to  look  as  if  her  husband,  if  she  had  one, 
were  not  going  to  claim  her.  No  one  claimed  her. 


SEPTEMBER  CHANGES  259 

Not  a  single  response  came  from  all  the  extensive 
advertising  which  Larry  still  kept  up  in  vain  hope 
of  success.  Apparently  no  one  had  missed  the 
little  Goldilocks.  Precious  as  she  was  none  sought 
her. 

In  the  meanwhile  she  was  an  undisguised  angel 
visitant  to  the  House  on  the  Hill.  If  in  his  kindly 
hospitality  Doctor  Holiday  had  stretched  a  point  or 
two  in  the  first  place  to  make  the  little  stranger 
feel  at  home  the  case  was  different  now.  She  was 
needed,  badly  needed"  and  she  played  the  part  of 
house  daughter  so  sweetly  and  unselfishly  that 
her  presence  among  them  was  a  double  blessing  to 
them  all,  except  perhaps  to  poor  Larry  who  loved 
her  best  of  all. 


' 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

A  PAST  WHICH  DID  NOT  STAY  BURIED 

COMING  in  from  a  lively  game  of  tennis  with 
Elsie  Hathaway,  his  newest  sweetheart,  the  An- 
cient History  Prof's  pretty  daughter,  Ted  Holiday 
found  awaiting  him  a  letter  from  Madeline  Taylor. 
He  turned  it  over  in  his  hands  with  a  keen  distaste 
for  opening  it,  had  indeed  almost  a  mind  to  chuck 
it  in  the  w-aste  paper  basket  unread.  Hang  it  all ! 
Why  had  she  written?  He  didn't  want  to  hear 
from  her,  didn't  wrant  to  be  reminded  of  her  exist- 
ence. He  wanted  instead  distinctly  to  forget  there 
was  a  Madeline  Taylor  and  that  he  had  been  fool 
enough  to  make  love  to  her  once.  Nevertheless  he 
opened  the  letter  and  pulled  his  forelock  in  pertur- 
bation as  he  read  it. 

She  had  quarrelled  with  her  grandfather  and  he 
would  not  let  her  come  back  home.  She  was  with 
Emma  just  now  but  she  couldn't  stay.  Fred  was 
behaving  very  nastily  and  he  might  tell  Emma  any 
day  that  she,  Madeline,  had  to  go.  They  were  all 
against  her.  Everything  was  against  a  girl  any- 
way. They  never  had  a  chance  as  a  man  did.  She 
wished  she  had  been  killed  when  she  had  been 
thrown  out  of  the  car  that  night.  It  would  have 
been  much  better  for  her  than  being  as  miserable  as 
she  was  now.  She  often  wished  she  was  dead.  But 
what  she  had  written  to  Ted  Holiday  for  was 
because  she  thought  perhaps  he  could  help  her  to 
find  a  job  in  the  college  town.  She  had  to  earn 

260 


A  PAST  WHICH  DID  NOT  STAY  BURIED      261 

some  money  right  away.  She  would  do  anything. 
She  didn't  care  what  and  would  be  very  grateful  to 
Ted  if  he  would  or  could  help  her  to  find  work. 

That  was  all.  There  was  not  a  single  personal 
note  in  the  whole  thing,  no  reference  to  their  flirta- 
tion of  the  early  summer  except  the  one  allusion  to 
the  accident,  no  attempt  to  revive  such  frail  ties  as 
had  existed  between  them,  no  reproaches  to  Ted 
for  having  broken  these  off  so  summarily.  It  was 
simply  and  exclusively  a  plea  for  help  from  one 
human  being  to  another. 

Tecl  thrust  the  letter  soberly  in  his  pocket  and 
went  off  for  a  shower.  But  the  thing  went  with 
him.  He  wished  Madeline  hadn't  written,  wished 
she  hadn't  besought  his  aid,  wished  most  of  all  she 
hadn't  been  such  a  devilish  good  sport  in  it  all.  If 
she  had  whined,  cast  things  up  against  him  as  she 
might  have  done,  thrown  herself  in  any  way  upon 
him,  he  could  perhaps  have  ignored  her  and  her  plea. 
But  she  had  done  nothing  of  the  sort.  She  was 
deucedly  game  now  just  as  she  had  been  the  night 
of  the  smash.  And  by  a  queer  trick  of  his  mind  her 
very  gameness  made  Ted  Holiday  feel  more  quiet 
and  responsible,  a  frame  of  mind  he  heartily  re- 
sented. Hanged  if  he  could  see  why  it  was  his 
funeral !  If  that  old  Hottentot  of  a  grandfather  of 
hers  chose  to  turn  her  out  without  a  cent  it  wasn't 
his  fault.  For  that  matter  he  wasn't  to  blame  for 
what  Madeline  herself  had  done.  He  didn't 
suppose  the  old  man  would  have  cut  so  rough  with- 
out plenty  of  cause.  Why  did  she  have  to  bob  up 
now  and  make  him  feel  so  darned  rotten? 

Unfortunately,  even  the  briefest  of  episodes  have 
a  way  of  not  erasing  themselves  as  conveniently 
as  most  of  us  would  like  to  have  them.  The  thing 
was  there  and  Ted  Holiday  had  to  look  at  it  whether 
it  made  him  feel  "darned  rotten"  or  not.  He  did  not 
want  to  help  the  girl,  did  not  even  want  to  renew 


262  WILD  WINGS 


their  acquaintance  by  even  so  much  as  a  letter. 
The  whole  thing  was  an  infernal  nuisance.  But 
infernal  nuisance  or  not,  he  had  to  deal  with  it, 
could  not  funk  it.  He  was  a  Holiday  and  no 
Holiday  ever  shirked  obligations  he  himself  had  in- 
curred. He  was  a  Holiday  and  no  Holiday  ever  let 
a  woman  ask  for  help,  and  not  give  it.  By  the 
time  he  was  back  from  the  shower  Ted  knew  pre- 
cisely where  he  stood.  Perhaps  he  had  known  all 
along. 

The  next  day  he  bestirred  himself,  went  to  Berry 
the  florist  who  he  happened  to  know  wras  in  need 
of  a  clerk,  got  the  burly  Irishman's  consent  to  give 
the  girl  a  job  at  excellent  wages,  right  away,  the 
sooner  the  better.  Ted  opened  his  mouth  to  ask 
for  an  advance  of  salary  but  thought  better  of  it 
before  the  words  came  out.  Madeline  might  not 
like  to  have  anybody  know  she  was  up  against  it 
like  that.  He  would  have  to  see  to  that  part  of  it 
himself  somehow. 

"You're  a  good  customer,  Mr.  Holiday,"  the  gen- 
ial florist  was  saying.  "I'm  tickled  to  be  obligin' 
ye  and  mesilf  at  the  same  time.  Anything  in  the 
flower  line,  to-day,  Mr.  Holiday?  Some  roses 
now  or  violets?  Got  some  jim  dandies  just  in. 
Beauties,  I'm  tellin'  you.  Want  to  see  'em?" 

Ted  hesitated.  His  exchecquer  was  low,  very 
low.  The  first  of  the  month  was  also  far  away— 
too  far,  considering  all  things.  His  bill  at  Berry's 
already  passed  the  bounds  of  wisdom  and  the  pos- 
sibility of  being  paid  in  full  out  of  the  next  month's 
allowance  without  horribly  crippling  the  debtor. 
It  was  exceedingly  annoying  to  have  to  forfeit  that 
ten  dollars  to  Uncle  Phil  every  month  for  that 
darned  automobile  business  which  it  seemed  as  if 
he  never  would  get  free  of  one  way  or  another.  He 
certainly  ought  not  to  buy  any  more  flowers  this 
month. 


A  PAST  WHICH  DID  NOT  STAY  BURIED       263 

Still,  there  was  the  hop  to-night.  Elsie  was  go- 
ing with  him.  He  had  run  a  race  with  three  other 
applicants  for  the  privilege  of  escorting  her  and 
being  victor  it  behooved  him  to  prove  he  appreci- 
ated his  gains.  He  didn't  want  Elsie  to  think  he 
was  a  tight-wad,  or  worse  still  suspect  him  of  being 
broke.  He  fell,  let  Berry  open  the  show  case,  de- 
bated seriously  the  respective  merits  of  roses  and 
violets,  having  reluctantly  relinquished  orchids  as 
a  little  too  ruinous  even  for  a  ruined  young  man. 

"If  they  are  for  Miss  Hathaway,"  murmured  a 
pretty,"  sympathetic  clerk  in  his  ear,  "Mr.  Delany 
sent  roses  this  morning  and  she  likes  violets  best. 
I've  heard  her  say  so." 

That  settled  it.  Ted  Holiday  wasn't  going  to  be 
beaten  by  a  poor  fish  like  Ned  Delaney.  The  vio- 
lets were  bought  and  duly  charged  along  with  those 
other  too  numerous  items  on  Ted  Holiday's  ac- 
count. Going  home  Ted  wrote  a  cheerful,  friendly 
letter  to  Madeline  Taylor  reporting  his  success 
in  getting  her  a  job  and  enclosing  a  check  for 
twenty  five  dollars,  "just  to  tide  you  over,"  he  had 
put  in  lightly,  forbearing  to  mention  that  the  gift 
made  his  bank  balance  even  lighter,  so  light  in  fact 
that  it  approached  complete  invisibility.  He  added 
that  he  was  sorry  things  were  in  a  mess  for  her 
but  they  would  clear  up  soon,  bound  to,  you  know. 
And  nix  on  the  wish-Iwere-dead-stuff !  It  was 
really  a  jolly  old  world  as  she  would  say  herself 
when  her  luck  turned.  He  remained  hers  sincerely 
and  so  forth. 

This  business  off  his  mind,  young  Mr.  Holiday 
felt  highly  relieved  and  pleased  with  himself  and 
the  world  which  was  such  a  jolly  old  affair  as  he 
had  just  assured  Madeline.  Later  he  wrent  to  the 
hop  and  had  a  corking  time,  stayed  till  the  last 
violin  swooned  off  into  silence,  then  sauntered  with 
deliberate  leisureliness  toward  Prof.  Hathaway's 


264  WILD  WINGS 


house  with  Elsie  on  his  arm.  On  the  Prof's  porch 
he  had  lingered  as  long  as  was  prudent,  perhaps 
a  little  longer,  spooning  discreetly  the  while  as  one 
may,  even  with  an  Ancient  History  Prof's  daughter. 
There  was  nothing  suggestive  of  Ancient  History 
about  Elsie.  She  was  slim  and  young  as  the  little 
new  moon  they  had  both  nearly  broken  their  necks 
to  see  over  their  right  shoulders  a  few  minutes 
before.  Moreover  she  was  exceedingly  pretty  and 
as  provocative  as  the  dickens.  In  the  end  Ted 
stole  a  saucy  kiss  and  left  her  pretending  to  be  as 
indignant  as  if  a  dozen  other  impudent  youths  had 
not  done  precisely  the  same  thing  since  the  opening 
of  the  college  year.  It  was  the  lady's  privilege  to 
protest.  Ted  granted  that,  but  neither  was  he  much 
taken  in  by  injured  innocence  airs.  Elsie  was  quite 
as  sophisticated  as  he  was  himself  as  he  knew  very 
well.  No  first  kiss  business  for  either  of  them,  he 
reflected  as  he  went  whistling  back  to  the  f  rat  house. 
It  was  all  in  the  game  and  both  knew  it  was  nothing 
but  a  game  which  made  it  perfectly  pleasant  and 
harmless. 

At  the  frat  house  he  found  a  quiet  little  game  of 
another  sort  in  progress,  slid  in,  took  a  hand,  got 
interested,  played  until  three  A.M.  and  on  quitting 
found  himself  in  possession  of  some  thirty  odd  dol- 
lars he  had  not  had  when  he  sat  in.  Considering 
his  recent  financial  depression  the  thirty  dollars 
was  all  to  the  good,  covered  Madeline's  check  and 
Elsie's  violets.  It  was  indeed  a  jolly  old  world  if 
you  treated  it  right  and  did  not  take  it  or  yourself 
too  seriously. 

Inasmuch  as  playing  cards  for  money  was  strictly 
against  college  rules  and  gambling  had  been  the  one 
vice  of  all  vices  the  late  Major  Holiday  had  hated 
with  unrelenting  hate,  it  might  be  a  satisfaction  to 
record  that  the  late  Major's  son  took  an  uneasy 
conscience  to  bed  that  night,  or  rather  that  morn- 


A  PAST  WHICH  DID  NOT  STAY  BURIED      265 

ing,  but  truth  is  truth  and  we  are  compelled  to  state 
that  Ted  Holiday  did  not  suffer  the  faintest  twinge 
of  remorse  and  went  to  sleep  the  moment  his  head 
touched  the  pillow  as  peacefully  as  a  guileless  new 
born  babe  might  have  done. 

Moreover  when  he  woke  the  next  morning  at  an 
unconscionably  late  hour  he  turned  over,  looked  at 
the  clock,  grunted  and  grinned  sleepily  and  lapsed 
off  again  into  blissful  oblivion,  thereby  cutting  all 
his  morning  classes  and  generally  submerging  him- 
self in  the  unregenerate  ways  of  his  graceless  soph- 
omoric  year.  He  had  never  contracted  to  be 
conspicuously  virtuous  it  will  be  recalled. 

The  next  day  he  secured  a  suitable  lodging  place 
for  Madeline  in  an  inexpensive  but  respectable 
neighborhood  and  the  day  after  that  betook  him- 
self to  the  station  to  meet  the  girl  herself.  Ted 
never  did  things  by  halves.  Having  made  up  his 
mind  to  stand  by  he  did  it  thoroughly,  perhaps  the 
more  punctiliously  because  in  his  heart  he  loathed 
the  whole  business  and  wished  he  were  well  out  of  it. 

For  a  moment  as  Madeline  came  toward  him  he 
hardly  recognized  her.  She  looked  years  older. 
The  brilliancy  of  her  beauty  was  curiously  dimmed 
as  an  electric  light  might  be  dimmed  inside  a  dusty 
globe.  There  were  hard  lines  about  her  full  lips 
and  a  sharp,  driven  look  in  her  black  eyes.  The 
two  had  met  in  June  on  equal  terms  of  blithe  youth. 
Now,  only  a  few  months  later,  Ted  was  still  a  care- 
less boy  but  Madeline  Taylor  had  been  forced  into 
premature  womanhood  and  wore  on  her  haggard 
young  face,  the  stamp  of  a  woman's  hard  won 
wisdom. 

To  the  girl  Ted  Holiday  appeared  more  the  bonny 
Prince  Charming  than  ever  only  infinitely  farther 
removed  from  her  than  he  had  seemed  in  those 
happy  summer  days  which  were  a  million  years  ago 
to  all  intents  and  purposes  now.  How  good  looking 


266  WILD  WINGS 


he  was — how  tall  and  clean  and  manly  looking! 
Her  heart  gave  a  quick  jump  seeing  him  again  after 
all  these  dreary  months.  But  oh,  she  must  be  very 
careful — must  never  forget  for  a  moment  that  things 
were  very,  very  different  now  from  what  they  were 
in  June! 

There  was  a  moment's  slightly  embarrassed 
silence  as  they  shook  hands.  Both  were  remember- 
ing all  too  vividly  the  scene  in  Cousin  Emma's 
garden  upon  the  occasion  of  their  last  meeting.  It 
was  Ted  who  first  found  tongue  and  announced 
casually  that  he  was  going  to  take  her  straight 
to  the  house  of  Mrs.  Bascdm,  her  landlady  to  be. 

"She's  a  good  sort,"  he  added.  "Mothery  like 
you  know.  You'll  like  her." 

Madeline  did  not  answer.  She  couldn't.  Some- 
thing choked  in  her  throat.  The  phrase,  "mothery 
like"  was  almost  too  much  for  the  girl  who  had 
never  had  a  mother  to  remember  and  wanted  one 
now  as  she  never  had  wanted  one  in  her  life.  Ted's 
kindness — the  first  she  had  received  from  any  one 
these  many  days — touched  her  deeply.  For  the 
first  time  in  months  the  tears  brimmed  up  into  her 
eyes  as  she  followed  her  companion  to  the  cab  and 
let  him  help  her  in.  As  the  door  closed  upon  them 
Ted  turned  and  faced  the  girl  and  seeing  the  tears 
put  out  his  hand  and  touched  hers  gently. 

"Don't  worry,  Madeline,"  he  said.  "Things  are 
going  to  look  up.  And  please  don't  cry,"  he 
pleaded  earnestly. 

She  wiped  away  the  tears  and  summoned  a  wan 
little  smile  to  meet  his. 

"I  won't,"  she  said.  "Crying  is  silly  and  won't 
help  anything.  It  is  just  that  I  was  awfully  tired 
and  your  being  so  good  to  me  upset  me.  You've 
always  been  good  even — when  I  thought  you 
weren't.  I  understand  better  now.  And  oh,  Ted, 
you  don't  know  how  ashamed  I  am  of  the  way  I 


A  PAST  WHICH  DID  NOT  STAY  BURIED       267 

behaved  that  night!  It  was  awful — my  striking 
you  like  that.  It  made  me  sick  to  think  of  it 
afterward." 

"It  needn't  have.  If  anybody  has  any  call  to  be 
ashamed  of  that  night  it's  yours  truly.  See  here, 
Madeline,  I've  worried  a  lot  about  you  though  may- 
be you  won't  believe  it  because  I  didn't  write  or 
act  as  if  I  were  sorry  about  things.  I  kept  still 
because  it  seemed  the  straightest  thing  to  do  all 
round,  but  I  did  think  a  great  deal  about  you, 
honest  *I  did,  and  I've  wondered  millions  of  times 
if  my  darn-foolness  set  things  going  wrong  for  you. 
Did  it,  Madeline?"  he  demanded. 

"No,"  she  answered  her  gaze  away  from  his  out 
the  cab  window.  "You  mustn't  worry,  Ted,  or 
blame  yourself.  It — it's  all  my  fault — everything." 

"It's  good  of  you  to  let  me  out  but  I  am  not  so 
sure  I  ought  to  be  let  out.  I'd  give  a  good  deal 
this  minute  if  I  could  go  back  and  not  take  Uncle 
Phil's  car  that  night."  Ted  leaned  forward  sud- 
denly and  for  a  startled  instant  Madeline  thought 
he  meant  to  kiss  her.  But  nothing  was  farther 
from  his  wish  or  thought.  It  was  the  scar  he  was 
looking  for.  He  had  almost  forgotten  it,  just  as 
he  had  almost  forgotten  the  episode  it  represented. 
But  there  it  was  on  her  forehead.  Even  in  the 
gathering  darkness  it  showed  with  perfect  distinct- 
ness. "I  hoped  it  had  gone,"  he  added.  "But  it  is 
still  there,  isn't  it?" 

"The  scar?  Yes,  it  is  still  there."  For  a  moment 
the  ghost  of  a  smile  played  about  the  girl's  lips. 
"I've  always  liked  it.  I'd  miss  it  if  it  went." 

"Well,  I  don't  like  it.  I  hate  it,"  groaned  the 
boy.  "Why,  Madeline  I  might  have  killed  you !" 

"I  know.  Sometimes  I  wish  it  had  come  out  so. 
It — it  would  have  been  better." 

"Don't  Madeline.  That  is  an  awrful  thing  to  say. 
Things  can't  be  as  bad  as  all  that,  you  know  they 


268  WILD  WINGS 


can't.  By  the  way,  can  you  tell  me  the  whole  bus- 
iness or  would  you  rather  not?" 

The  girl  shivered. 

"No.  Don't  ask  me,  Ted.  It — it's  too  awful. 
Don't  bother  about  me.  You  have  done  quite 
enough  as  it  is.  I  am  very  grateful  but  truly  I 
would  rather  you  wouldn't  have  anything  more  to 
do  with  me.  Just  forget  I  am  here." 

And  because  this  injunction  was  precisely  in  line 
with  his  own  inclination  Ted  suspected  its  propri- 
ety and  swung  counterwise  in  true  Ted  fashion. 

"I'll  do  just  exactly  as  I  please  about  that.  I 
won't  pester  you  but  you  needn't  think  I'm  going 
to  leave  you  all  soul  alone  in  a  strange  place  when 
you  are  feeling  rotten  anyway.  I'm  pretty  dog- 
goned  selfish  but  not  quite  that  bad." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

ALL  THE  WORLD'S  A  STAGE 

ALTHOUGH  Max  Hempel  had  not  openly  sought 
out  Tony  Holiday  he  was  entirely  aware  of  her  pre- 
sence in  the  city  and  in  the  dramatic  school.  When- 
ever she  played  a  role  in  the  course  of  the  -latter's 
program  he  had  his  trusted  aides  on  the  spot  to 
watch  her,  gauge  her  progress,  report  their  finding 
to  himself.  Once  or  twice  he  had  come  himself,  sat 
in  a  dark  corner  and  kept  his  eye  unblinking  from 
first  to  last  upon  the  girl. 

In  November  it  had  seemed  good  to  the  school  to 
revive  The  Killarney  Kose,  a  play  which  ten  years 
ago  had  had  a  phenomenal  run  and  ended  as  it 
began  with  packed  houses.  It  was  past  history 
now.  Even  the  road  companies  had  lapsed,  and 
its  name  was  all  but  forgotten  by  the  fickle  public 
which  must  and  will  have  ever  new  sensations. 

Hempel  was  glad  the  school  had  made  this  partic- 
ular selection,  doubly  glad  it  had  given  Antoinette 
Holiday  the  title  role.  The  play  would  show 
whether  the  girl  was  ready  for  his  purposes  as  he 
had  about  decided  she  was.  He  would  send  Carol 
Clay  to  see  her  do  the  thing.  Carol  would  know. 
Who  better?  It  was  she  who  created  the  original 
Rose. 

Tony  Holiday  behind  the  scene  on  that  momen- 
tous erening,  on  being  informed  that  Carol  Clay 
— the  famous  Carol  Clay  herself — the  real  Rose — 
was  out  there  in  a  box,  was  paralyzed  with  fear,  for 

269 


270  WILD  WINGS 


the  first  time  in  her  life,  victim  of  genuine  stage 
fright.  She  was  cold.  She  was  hot.  She  was  one 
tremendous  shake  and  shiver.  She  was  a  very  lump 
of  stone.  The  orchestra  was  already  playing.  In 
a  moment  her  call  would  come  and  she  was  going 
to  fail,  fail  miserably.  And  with  Carol  Clay  there 
to  see. 

Some  flowers  and  a  card  were  brought  in.  The 
flowers  were  from  Alan  of  course,  great  crimson 
roses.  It  was  dear  of  him  to  send  them.  Later 
she  would  appreciate  it.  But  just  now  not  even 
Alan  mattered.  She  glanced  at  the  card  which  had 
come  separately,  was  not  with  the  flowers.  It  was 
Dick's.  Hastily  .she  read  the  pencil- written  scrawl. 
"Am  covering  the  Rose.  Will  be  close  up.  See 
you  after  the  show.  Best  o'  luck  and  love." 

Tony  could  almost  have  cried  for  joy  over  the 
message.  Somehow  the  knowledge  of  Dick's  near- 
ness gave  her  back  her  self-possession.  She  had 
refused  to  let  Alan  come.  His  presence  in  the 
audience  always  distracted  her,  made  her  nervous. 
But  Dick  was  different.  It  was  almost  like  having 
Uncle  Phil  himself  there.  She  wouldn't  fail  now. 
She  couldn't.  It  was  for  the  honor  of  the  Hill. 

A  moment  later,  still  clutching  Dick's  comforting 
card,  she  ran  in  on  the  stage,  swinging  her  sun- 
bonnet  from  its  green  ribbons  with  hoydenish  grace, 
chanting  a  gay  little  lilt  of  an  Irish  melody.  Her 
fear  had  gone  even  as  the  dew  might  have  dis- 
appeared at  the  kiss  of  the  sun  upon  the  Killarney 
greensward. 

Almost  at  once  she  discovered  Dick  and  sang  a 
part  of  her  song  straight  down  at  him.  A  little 
later  she  dared  to  let  her  eyes  stray  to  the  box 
where  Carol  Clay  sat.  The  actress  smiled  and  Tony 
smiled  back  and  then  forgot  she  was  Tony,  was 
henceforth  only  Rose  of  Killarney. 

It  was  a  winsome,  old-timey  sort  of  play,  with  an 


ALL  THE  WORLD'S  A  STAGE  271 

almost  Barriesque  charm  and  whimsicality  to  it. 
The  witching  little  Rose  laughed  and  danced  and 
gang  and  flirted  and  wept  and  loved  her  way  through 
it  and  in  the  end  threw  herself  in  the  right  lover's 
arms,  presumably  there  to  dwell  happy  forever 
after. 

After  the  last  curtain  went  down  and  she  had 
smiled  and  bowed  and  kissed  her  hand  to  the  kindly 
audience  over  and  over  Tony  fled  to  the  dressing 
room  where  she  could  still  hear  the  intoxicating, 
delightful  thunder  of  applause.  It  had  come.  She> 
could  act.  She  could.  Oh !  She  couldn't  live  and 
be  any  happier. 

But,  after  all  she  could  stand  a  little  more  joy 
without  coming  to  an  untimely  end,  for  there  sud- 
denly smiling  at  her  from  the  threshold  was  Carol 
Clay  congratulating  her  and  telling  her  what  a 
pleasure  to-night's  Rose  had  been  to  the  Rose  of 
yesterday.  And  before  Tony  could  get  her  breath 
to  do  more  than  utter  a  rather  shy  and  gasping 
word  of  gratitude,  the  actress  had  invited  her  to 
take  tea  with  her  on  the  next  day  and  she  had 
accepted  and  Carol  Clay  was  gone. 

It  was  in  a  wonderful  world  of  dreams  that  Tony 
Holiday  dwelt  as  she  removed  a  little  of  her  make- 
up, gave  orders  to  have  all  her  flowers  sent  to  a 
near-by  hospital,  except  Alan's,  which  she  gathered 
up  in  her  arms  and  drawing  her  velvet  cloak 
around  her,  stepped  out  into  the  waiting-room. 

But  it  was  a  world  of  rather  alarming  realities 
that  she  went  into.  There  was  Dick  Carson  wait- 
ing as  she  had  bidden  him  to  wait  in  the  message 
she  had  sent  him.  And  there  was  Alan  Massey, 
unbidden  and  unexpected.  And  both  these  males 
with  whom  she  had  flirted  unconscionably  for 
weeks  past  were  ominously  belligerent  of  manner 
and  countenance.  She  would  have  given  anything 
to  have  had  a  wand  to  wave  the  two  away,  keep 


272  WILD  WINGS 


them  from  spoiling  her  perfect  evening.  But  it 
was  too  late.  The  hour  of  reckoning  which  comes 
even  to  queens  was  here. 

"Hello,  you  two,"  she  greeted,  putting  on  a  brave 
front  for  all  her  sinking  heart.  She  laid  down  the 
roses  and  gave  a  hand  impartially  to  each.  "Aw- 
fully glad  to  see  you,  Dicky.  Alan,  I  thought  I 
told  you  not  to  come.  Were  you  here  all  the 
same?" 

"I  was.  I  told  you  so  in  my  note.  Didn't  you 
get  it?  I  sent  it  in  with  the  roses."  H'e  nodded 
at  the  flowers  she  had  just  surrendered. 

Dick's  eyes  shadowed.  Massey  had  scored 
there.  He  had  not  thought  of  flowers.  Indeed 
there  had  been  no  time  to  get  any  he  had  gotten 
the  assignment  so  late.  There  had  been  quantities 
of  other  flowers,  he  knew.  The  usher  had  car- 
ried up  tons  of  them  it  seemed  to  the  popular  Rose, 
but  she  carried  only  Alan  Massey's  home  with 
her. 

"I  am  sorry,  Alan.  I  didn't  see  it.  Maybe  it 
was  there ;  I  didn't  half  look  at  the  flowers.  Your 
message  did  me  so  much  good,  Dicky.  I  was  scared 
to  death  because  they  had  just  said  Miss  Clay  was 
outside.  And  somehow  when  I  knew  you  were 
there  I  felt  all  right  again.  I  carried  your  card 
all  through  the  first  act  and  I  know  it  was  your 
wishing  me  the  best  o'  luck  that  brought  it." 

She  smiled  at  Dick  and  it  was  Alan's  turn  to 
glower.  She  had  not  looked  at  his  roses,  had  not 
cared  to  look  for  his  message;  but  she  carried  the 
other  man's  card,  used  it  as  a  talisman.  And  she 
was  glad.  The  other  was  there,  but  she  had  for- 
bidden himself — Alan  Massey — to  come,  had  even 
reproached  him  for  coming. 

A  group  of  actors  passed  through  the  reception 
room,  calling  gay  goodnights  and  congratulations 
to  Tony  as  they;  went  and  shooting  glances  of 


ALL  THE  WORLD'S  A  STAGE  273 

friendly  curiosity  at  the  two,  tall  frowning  men 
between  whom  the  vivacious  Rose  stood. 

"Tony  Holiday  doesn't  keep  all  her  lovers  on 
the  stage,"  laughed  the  near-heroine  as  she  was 
out  of  hearing.  "Did  you  ever  see  two  gentlemen 
that  hated  each  other  more  cordially?" 

"She  is  an  arrant  little  flirt,  isn't  she,  Micky?'' 
The  speaker  challenged  the  Irish  lover  of  the  play 
who  had  had  the  luck  to  win  the  sweet,  thorny  lit- 
tle Killarney  Rose  in  the  end  and  to  get  a  real,  albeit 
a  play,  kiss  from  the  pretty  little  heroine,  who  as 
Tony  Holiday  as  well  as  Rose  was  prone  to  make 
mischief  in  susceptible  male  hearts. 

"She  can  have  me  any  minute,  on  the  stage  or 
off,"  answered  Micky  promptly.  "She's  a  winner. 
Got  me  going  all  right.  Most  forgot  my  lines  she 
was  so  darned  pretty." 

Dick  took  advantage  of  the  confusion  of  the  in- 
terruption to  get  in  his  word. 

"Will  you  come  out  with  me  for  a  bite  somewhere, 
Tony.  I  won't  keep  you  late,  but  there  are  some 
things  I  want  to  talk  qver  with  you." 

Tony  hesitated.  She  had  caught  the  ominous 
flash  of  Alan's  eyes.  She  was  desperately  afraid 
there  would  be  a  scene  if  she  said  yes  to  Dick  now 
in  Alan's  hearing.  The  latter  strode  over  to  her  in- 
stantly, and  laid  his  hand  with  a  proprietorial  air 
on  her  arm.  From  this  point  of  vantage  he  faced 
Dick  insolently. 

"Miss  Holiday  is  going  out  with  me,"  he  assert- 
ed. "You — clear  out." 

The  tone  and  manner  even  more  than  the  words 
were  deliberate  insult.  Dick's  face  went  white. 
His  mouth  set  tight.  There  was  almost  as  ugly  a 
look  in  his  eyes  as  there  was  in  Alan's.  Tony  had 
never  seen  him  look  like  that  and  was  frightened. 

"I'll  clear  out  when  Miss  Holiday  asks  me  to 
and  not  before,"  he  said  in  a  significantly  quiet 


274  WILD  WINGS 


voice.  "Don't  go  too  far,  Mr.  Massey.  I  have 
taken  a  good  deal  from  you.  There's  a  limit. 
Tony,  I  repeat  my  question.  Will  you  go  out  with 
me  to-night?" 

Before  Tony  could  speak  Alan  Massey's  long 
right  arm  shot  out  in  Dick's  direction.  Dick 
dodged  the  blow  coolly. 

"Hold  on,  Massey,"  he  said.  "I'm  perfectly  will- 
ing to  smash  your  head  any  time  it  is  convenient. 
Nothing  would  afford  me  greater  pleasure  in  fact. 
But  you  will  kindly  keep  from  making  trouble  here. 
You  can't  get  a  woman's  name  mixed  up  with  a 
cheap  brawl  such  as  you  are  trying  to  start.  You 
know,  .it  won't  do." 

Alan  Massey's  white  face  turned  a  shade  whiter. 
His  arm  fell.  He  turned  back  to  Tony,  real  an- 
guish in  his  fire-shot  eyes. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Tony  dearest,"  he  bent  over 
to  say.  "Carson  is  right.  We'll  fight  it  out  else- 
where when  you  are  not  present.  May  I  take  you 
to  the  taxi?  I  have  one  waiting  outside." 

Another  group  of  people  passed  through  the 
vestibule,  said  goodnight  and  went  on  out  to  the 
street  exit.  It  made  Tony  sick  to  think  of  what 
they  would  have  seen  if  Dick  had  lost  his  self  con- 
trol as  Alan  had.  She  thought  she  had  never  liked 
Dick  as  she  did  that  moment,  never  despised  Alan 
Massey  so  utterly.  Dick  was  a  man.  Alan  was  a 
spoiled  child,  a  weakling,  the  slave  of  his  passions. 
It  was  no  thanks  to  him  that  her  name  was  not  al- 
ready bandied  about  on  people's  lips,  the  name  of 
a  girl,  about  whom  men  came  to  fist  blows  like  a 
Bowery  movie  scene.  She  was  humiliated  all  over, 
enraged  with  Alan,  enraged  with  herself  for  stoop- 
ing to  care  for  a  man  like  that.  She  waited  until 
they  were  absolutely  alone  again  and  then  said 
what  she  had  to  say.  She  turned  to  face  Alan 
directly. 


ALL  THE  WORLD'S  A  STAGE  275 

"You  may  take  me  nowhere,"  she  said.  "I  don't 
want  to  see  you  again  as  long  as  I  live." 

For  an  instant  Alan  stared  at  her,  dazed,  unable 
to  grasp  the  force  of  what  she  was  saying,  the  sig- 
nificance of  her  tone.  As  a  matter  of  fact  the  ar- 
tist in  him  had  leaped  to  the  surface,  banished  all 
other  considerations.  He  had  never  seen  Tony 
Holiday  really  angry  before.  She  was  magnificent 
with  those  flashing  eyes  and  scarlet  cheeks — a 
glorious  little  Fury — a  Valkyrie.  He  would  paint 
her  like  that.  She  was  stupendous,  the  most  vividly 
alive  thing  he  had  ever  seen,  like  flame  itself,  in  her 
flaming  anger.  Then  it  came  over  him  what  she 
had  said. 

"But,  Tony,"  he  pleaded,  "my  belovedest — " 

He  put  out  both  hands  in  supplication,  but  Tony 
whirled  away  from  them.  She  snatched  the  great 
bunch  of  red  roses  from  the  table,  ran  to  the  win- 
dow, flung  up  the  sash,  hurled  them  out  into  the 
night.  Then  she  turned  back  to  Alan. 

"Now  go,"  she  commanded,  pointing  with  a  small, 
inexorable  hand  to  the  door. 

Alan  Massey  went. 

Tony  dropped  in  a  chair,  spent  and  trembling, 
all  but  in  tears.  The  disagreeable  scene,  the  piled 
up  complex  of  emotions  coming  on  top  of  the  stress 
and  strain  of  the  play  were  almost  too  much  for 
her.  She  was  a  quivering  bundle  of  nerves  and 
misery  at  the  moment. 

Dick  came  to  her. 

"Forgive  me,  Tony.  I  shouldn't  have  forced  the 
issue  maybe.  But  I  couldn't  stand  any  more  from 
that  cad." 

"I  am  glad  you  did  exactly  what  you  did  do, 
Dick,  and  I  am  more  grateful  than  I  can  ever  tell 
you  for  not  letting  Alan  get  you  into  a  fight  here 
in  this  place  with  all  these  people  coming  and  go- 
ing. I  would  never  have  gotten  over  it  if  anything 


276  WILD  WINGS 


like  that  had  happened.  It  would  have  been  ter- 
rible. I  couldn't  ever  have  looked  any  of  them  in 
the  face  again."  She  shivered  and  put  her  two 
hands  over  her  eyes  ashamed  to  the  quick  at  the 
thought. 

Dick  sat  down  on  the  arm  of  her  chair.,  one  hand 
resting  gently  on  the  girl's  shoulder. 

"Don't  cry,  Tony,"  he  begged.  "I  can't  stand  it. 
You  needn't  have  worried.  There  wasn't  any 
danger  of  anything  like  that  happening.  I  care 
too  much  to  let  you  in  for  anything  of  that  sort. 
So  does  he  for  that  matter.  He  saw  it  in  a  minute. 
He  really  wouldn't  want  to  da  you  any  harm  any- 
way, Tony.  Even  I  know  that,  and  you  must  know 
it  better  than  I." 

Tony  put  down  her  hands,  looked  at  Dick. 
"I  suppose  that  is  true,"  she  sighed.     "He  does 
love  me,  Dick." 

"He  does,  Tony.     I  wish  he  didn't.     And  I  wish 
with  all  my  heart  I  were  sure  you  didn't  love  him." 
Tony  sighed  again  and  her  eyes  fell. 
"I  wish — I  were  sure,  too,"  she  faltered. 
Dick  winced  at  that.     He  had  no  answer.     What 
was  there  to  say? 

"I  don't  see  why  I  should  care.  I  don't  see  how 
I  can  care  after  to-night.  He  is  horrid  in  lots  of 
ways — a  cad — just  as  you  called  him.  I  know 
Larry  would  feel  just  as  you  do  and  hate  to  have 
him  come  near  me.  Larry  and  I  have  almost  quar- 
reled about  it  now.  He  thinks  Uncle  Phil  is  all 
wrong  not  to  forbid  my  seeing  Alan  at  all.  But 
Uncle  Phil  is  too  wise.  He  doesn't  want  to  have 
me  marry  Alan  any  mo*re  than  the  rest  of  you  do 
but  he  knows  if  he  fights  it  it  would  put  me  on  the 
other  side  in  a  minute  and  I'd  do  it,  maybe,  in  spite 
of  everybody." 

"Tony,  you  aren't  engaged  to  him?" 
She  shook  her^head. 


ALL  THE  WORLD'S  A  STAGE  277 

"Not  exactly.  I  am  afraid  I  might  as  well  be 
though.  I  said  I  didn't  ever  want  to  see  him  again, 
but  I  didn't  mean  it.  I  shall  want  to  see  him  again 
by  to-morrow.  I  always  do  no  matter  what  he 
does.  I  always  shall  I  am  afraid.  It  is  like  that 
with  me.  I'm  sorry,  Dicky.  I  ought  to  have  told 
you  that  before.  I've  been  horrid  not  to,  I  know. 
Take  me  home  now,  please.  I'm  tired — awfully 
tired." 

Going  home  in  the  cab  neither  spoke  until  just 
as  they  were  within  a  few  blocks  of  the  Hostelry 
when  Dick  broke  the  silence. 

"I  am  sorry  all  this  had  to  happen  to-night," 
he  said.  "Because,  well,  I  am  going  away  to- 
morrow." 

"Going  away!  Dick!  Where?"  It  was  hor- 
ribly selfish  of  her,  Tony  knew;  but  it  didn't  seem 
as  if  she  could  bear  to  have  Dick  go.  It  seemed  as 
if  the  only  thing  that  was  stable  in  her  reeling  life 
would  be  gone  if  he  went.  If  he  went  she  would 
belong  to  Alan  more  and  more.  There  would  be 
nothing  to  hold  her  back.  She  was  afraid.  She 
clung  to  Dick.  He  alone  of  the  whole  city  full  of 
human  beings  was  a  symbol  of  Holiday  Hill.  With 
him  gone  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  would  be  hope- 
lessly adrift  on  perilous  seas. 

"To  Mexico — Vera  Cruz,  I  believe,"  he  answered 
her  question. 

"Vera  Cruz!  Dick,  you  mustn't!  It  is  awful 
down  there  now.  Everybody  says  so."  He  smiled 
a  little  at  that. 

"It  is  because  it  is  more  or  less  awful  that  they 
are  sending  me,"  he  said.  "Journalism  isn't  much 
interested  in  placidity.  A  newspaper  man  has  to 
be  where  things  are  happening  fast  and  plenty.  If 
things  are  hot  down  there  so  much  the  better.  They 
will  sizzle  more  in  the  copy." 

"Dick!    I  can't  have  you  go.    I  can't  bear  it." 


278  WILD  WINGS 


Tony's  hand  crept  into  his.  "Something  dreadful 
might  happen  to  you,"  she  wailed. 

He  pressed  her  hand,  grateful  for  her  real  trouble 
about  him  and  for  her  caring. 

"Oh  no,  dear.  Nothing  dreadful  will  happen  to 
me.  You  mustn't  worry,"  he  soothed. 

"But  I  do.  I  shall.  How  can  I  help  it?  It  is 
just  as  if  Larry  or  Ted  were  going.  It  scares  me." 

Dick  drew  away  his  hand  suddenly. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  Tony,  please  don't  tell  me 
again  that  I'm  just  like  Larry  and  Ted  to  you.  It 
is  bad  enough  to  know  it  without  your  rubbing  it 
in  all  the  time.  I  can't  stand  it — not  to-night." 

"Dick!"  Tony  was  startled,  taken  aback  by  his 
tone.  Dick  rarely  let  himself  go  like  that. 

In  a  moment  he  was  all  contrition. 

"Forgive  me,  Tony.  I'm  sorry  I  said  that.  I 
ought  to  be  thankful  you  care  that  much,  and  I  am. 
It  is  dear  of  you  and  I  do  appreciate  it." 

"Oh  me !"  sighed  Tony.  "Everything  I  do  or  say 
is  wrong.  I  wish  I  did  care  the  other  way  for  you, 
Dicky  dear.  Truly  I  do.  It  would  be  so  much 
nicer  and  simpler  than  caring  for  Alan,"  she  added 
naively. 

"Life  isn't  fixed  nice  and  simple,  Tony.  At  least 
it  never  has  been  for  me." 

"Oh,  Dick!  Everything  has  been  horribly  hard 
for  you  always,  and  I'm  making  it  harder.  I  don't 
want  to,  Dicky  dear.  You  know  I  don't.  It  is  just 
that  I  can't  help  it." 

"I  know,  Tony.  You  mustn't  bother  about  me. 
I'm  all  right.  Will  you  tell  me  just  one  thing 
though?  If  you  hadn't  cared  for  Massey — no  I 
won't  put  it  like  that.  If  you  had  cared  for  me 
would  my  not  having-  any  name  have  made  any 
difference?" 

"Of  course  it  wouldn't  have  made  any  difference, 
Dicky.  What  does  a  name  matter?  You  are  you 


ALL  THE  WORLD'S  A  STAGE  279 

and  that  is  what  I  would  care  for — do  care  for. 
The  rest  doesn't  matter.  Besides,  you  are  making 
a.  name  for  yourself." 

"I  am  doing  it  under  your  name — the  one  you 
gave  me." 

"I  am  proud  to  have'  it  used  that  way.  Why 
wouldn't  I  be?  It  is  honored.  You  have  not  only 
lived  up  to  it  as  you  promised  Uncle  Phil.  You 
have  made  it  stand  for  something  fine.  Your  sto- 
ries are  splendid.  You  are  going  to  be  famous 
and  I—  Why,  Dicky,  just  think,  it  will  be  my 
name  you  will  take  on  up  to1  the  stars.  Oh,  we're 
here,"  as  the  cab  jolted  to  a  halt  in  front  of  the 
Hostelry. 

The  cabby  flung  open  the  door.  Tony  and  Dick 
stepped  out,  went  up  the  steps.  In  a  moment  they 
were  alone  in  the  dimly  lit  hall. 

"Tony,  would  you  mind  letting  me  kiss  you  just 
once  as  you  would  Larry  or  Ted  if  one  of  them  were 
going  off  on  a  long  journey  away  from  you?" 

Dick's  voice  was  humble,  pleading.  It  touched 
Tony  deeply,  and  sent  the  quick  tears  welling  up 
into  her  eyes  as  she  raised  her  face  to  his. 

For  a  moment  he  held  her  close,  kissed  her  on 
the  cheek  and  then  released  her. 

"Good-by,  Tony.  Thank  you  and  God  bless  you," 
he  said  a  little  huskily  as  he  let  her  go. 

"Good-by,  Dick."  And  then  impulsively  Tony 
put  up  her  lips  and  kissed  him,  the  first  time  he 
ev£r  remembered  a  woman's  lips  touching  his. 

A  second  later  the  door  closed  upon  him,  shutting 
him  out  in  the  night.  He  dismissed  the  cab  driver 
and  walked  blindly  off,  not  knowing  or  caring  in 
what  direction  he  went.  It  was  hours  before  he 
let  himself  into  his  lodging  house.  It  seemed  as 
if  he  could  have  girdled  the  earth  on  the  strength  of 
Tony  Holiday's  kiss.  The  next  morning  he  was 
off  for  Mexico. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE   KALEIDOSCOPE    REVOLVES 

TONY  slept  late  next  morning  and  when  she  did 
open  her  eyes  they  fell  upon  a  huge  florist  box  by 
the  door  and  a  special  delivery  letter  on  top  of  it. 
The  maid  had  set  the  two  in  an  hour  ago  and  tip- 
toed away  lest  she  waken  the  weary  little  sleeper. 

Tony  got  up  and  opened  the  box.  Roses — dozens 
of  them,  worth  the  price  of  a  month's  wages  to 
many  a  worker  in  the  city !  Frail,  exquisite,  shell- 
pink  beauties,  with  gold  at  their  hearts!  Tony 
adored  roses  but  she  almost  hated  these  because 
it  seemed  to  her  Alan  was  bribing  her  forgiveness 
by  playing  upon  her  worship  of  their  beauty  and 
fragrance. 

Still  kneeling  by  the  flowers  she  glanced  at  the 
clock.  Ten-thirty!  Dick  was  already  miles  away 
on  his  hateful  journey,  had  gone  sad  and  hopeless 
because  she  loved  Alan  Massey.  Why  did  it  have 
to  be  so?  Why  was  love  so  perverse  and  unreason- 
able a  thing?  Alan  was  not  worthy  to  touch  Dick's 
hand,  though  in  his  arrogance  he  affected  to  despise 
the  other.  But  it  was  Alan  she  loved,  not  Dick. 
There  must  be  something  wrong  with  her,  dreadfully 
wrong  that  it  should  be  so.  After  last  night  there 
could  be  no  doubt  of  that. 

She  sat  down  on  the  floor,  opened  Alan's  letter, 
despised  herself  for  letting  its  author's  spell  creep 
over  her  anew  with  every  word.  It  was  an  abject 
plea  for  mercy,  for  forgiveness,  for  restoration  to 
favor.  It  had  been  a  devil  of  jealousy  that  had 

280 


THE  KALEIDOSCOPE  REVOLVES          281 

possessed  him,  he  had  not  known  what  he  was  do- 
ing. Surely  she  must  know  that  he  would  not  will- 
ingly harm  or  hurt  or  anger  her  in  any  way.  He 
loved  her  too  much.  Carson  had  behaved  like  a 
man.  Alan  would  apologize  to  him  if  the  other 
man  would  accept  the  apology.  It  was  Tony  really 
who  had  driven  him  mad  by  being  so  much  kinder 
to  the  other  than  to  himself.  She  must  realize  what 
he  was,  not  drive  him  too  far. 

"I  am  sending  you  roses,"  he  ended.  "Please 
don't  throw  them  away  as  you  did  the  others. 
Keep  them  and  let  them  plead  for  me.  And  don't 
ah  Tony,  don't  ever,  ever'  say  again  what  you  said 
last  night,  that  you  never  wanted  to  see  me 
again!  You  don't  mean  it,  I  know.  But  don't 
say  it.  It  kills  me  to  hear  you.  If  you  throw  me 
over  I'll  blow  my  brains  out  as  sure  as  I  am  a  liv- 
ing man  this  moment.  But  you  won't,  you  cannot, 
Tony  dearest.  You  will  forgive  me,  stand  by  me, 
rotten  as  I  am.  You  are  mine.  You  love  me. 
You  won't  push  me  down  to  Hell." 

It  was  a  cowardly  letter  Tony  thought,  a  letter 
calculated  to  frighten  her,  bring  her  to  subjection 
again  as  well  as  to  gratify  the  writer's  own  Byronic 
instinct  for  pose.  He  had  behaved  badly.  He  ac- 
knowledged it  but  claimed  forgiveness  on  the 
grounds  of  love,  his  love  for  her  which  had  been 
goaded  to  mad  jealousy  by  her  thoughtless  unkind- 
ness,  her  love  for  him  which  would  not  desert  him 
no  matter  what  he  did. 

But  pose  or  not,  Tony  was  obliged  to  admit 
there  was  some  truth  in  it  all.  Perhaps  it  was 
all  true-too  true.  Even  if  he  did  not  resort  to  the 
pistol  as  he  threatened  he  would  find  other  means 
of  slaying  his  soul  if  not  his  body  if  she  forsook 
him  now.  She  could  not  do  it.  As  he  said  she 
loved  him  too  well.  She  had  gone  too  far  in  the 
path  to  turn  back  now. 


282  WILD  WINGS 


Ah  why,  why  had  she  let  it  go  so  far?  Why  had 
she  not  listened  to  Dick,  to  Uncle  Phil,  to  Carlotta, 
even  to  Miss  Lottie?  They  had  all  told  her  there 
was  no  happiness  for  her  in  loving  Alan  Massey. 
She  knew  it  herself  better  than  any  of  them  could 
possibly  know  it.  And  yet  she  had  to  go  on,  for 
his  sake,  for  her  own  because  she  loved  him. 

By  this  time  she  was  no  longer  angry  or  resentful. 
She  was  just  sorry — sorry  for  Alan — sorry  for 
herself.  She  knew  just  as  she  had  known  all  along 
that  last  night's  incident  would  not  really  make 
any  difference.  It  would  be  put  away  in  time  with 
all  the  other  things  she  had  to  forgive.  She  had 
ea,ten  her  pomegranate  seeds.  She  could  not  es- 
cape the  dark  kingdom.  She  did  not  wish  to. 

Later  came  violets  from  Dick  which  she  put  in  a 
vase  on  her  desk  beside  Uncle  Phil's  picture.  But 
it  was  the  fragrance  and  color  of  Alan's  roses  that 
filled  the  room,  and  presently  she  sat  down  and 
wrote  her  ill-behaved  lover  a  sweet,  forgiving  little 
note.  She  was  sorry  if  she  had  been  unkind.  She 
had  not  meant  to  be.  As  for  what  happened  it 
was  too  late  to  worry  about  it  now.  They  had  best 
forget  it,  if  they  could.  He  couldn't  very  well  apol- 
ogize to  Dick  in  person  because  he  was  already  on 
his  way  to  Mexico.  There  was  no  need  of  any 
penance.  Of  course  she  forgave  him,  knew  he  had 
not  meant  to  hurt  her,  though  he  had  horribly.  If 
he  cared  to  do  so  he  might  take  her  to  dinner  to- 
morrow night — somewhere  where  they  could  dance. 
And  in  conclusion  she  was  always  his,  Tony  Holi- 
day. 

Both  Dick  and  Alan  were  driven  out  of  her  mind 
later  that  day  by  the  delightful  and  exciting  in- 
terview over  the  tea  table  with  Carol  Clay.  Miss 
Clay  was  a  charming  hostess,  drew  the  girl  out 
without  appearing  to  do  so,  got  her  to  talk  naturally 
about  many  things,  her  life  with  her  father  at 


THE  KALEIDOSCOPE  REVOLVES  283 

army  barracks,  and  with  her  uncle  on  her  beloved 
Hill,  of  her  friends  and  brothers,  her  college  life, 
of  books  and  plays.  Plays  took  them  to  the  Kill- 
arney  Rose  and  once  more  Miss  Clay  expressed  her 
pleasure  in  the  girl's  rendering  of  one  of  her  own 
favorite  roles. 

"You  acted  as  if  you  had  been  playing  Rose  all 
your  life,"  she  added  with  a  smile. 

"Maybe  I  have,''  said  Tony.  "Rose  is — a  good 
deal  like  me.  Maybe  that  is  why  I  loved  playing 
her  so." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder.  You  are  a  real  little 
actress,  my  dear.  I  wonder  if  you  are  ready  to  pay 
the  price  of  it.  It  is  bitterly  hard  work  and  it 
means  giving  up  half  the  things  women  care  for." 

The  speaker's  lovely  eyes  shadowed  a  little. 
Tony  wondered  what  Carol  Clay  had  given  up, 
was  giving  up  for  her  art  to  bring  that  look  into 
them. 

"I  am  not  afraid.  I  am  willing  to  work.  I  love 
it.  And  I — I  am  willing  to  give  up  a  good  deal." 

"Lovers?"  smiled  Miss  Clay. 

"Must  I?  I  thought  actresses  always  had  lovers, 
at  least  worshipers.  Can't  I  keep  the  lovers,  Miss 
Clay?"  There  was  a  flash  of  mischief  in  Tony's 
eyes  as  she  asked  the  important  question. 

"Better  stick  to  worshipers.  Lovers  are  risky. 
Husbands — fatal." 

Tony  laughed  outright  at  that. 

"I  am  willing  to  postpone  the  fatality,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it  for  I  lured  you  here  to 
take  you  into  a  deep-laid  plot.  I  suppose  you  did 
not  suspect  that  it  was  Max  Hempel  who  sent  me 
to  see  you  play  Rose?" 

"Mr.  Hempel?  I  thought  he  had  forgotten 
me." 

"He  never  forgets  any  one  in  whom  he  is  in- 


284  WILD  WINGS 


terested.  He  has  had  his  eye  on  you  ever  since  he 
saw  you  play  Rosalind.  He  told  me  when  he  came 
back  from  that  trip  that  I  had  a  rival  coming 
on." 

"Oh,  no!"  Tony  objected  even  in  jest  to  such 
desecration. 

"Oh,  yes,"  smiled  her  hostess.  "Max  Hempel  is  a 
brutally  frank  person.  He  never  spares  one  the 
truth,  even  the  disagreeable  truth.  He  has  had  his 
eye  out  for  a  new  ingenue  for  a  long  time.  In- 
genues do  get  old — at  least  older  you  know." 

"Not  you,"  denied  Tony. 

"Even  I,  in  time.  I  grant  you  not  yet.  It  takes 
a  degree  of  age  and  sophistication  to  play  youth 
and  innocence.  We  do  it  better  as  a  rule  at  thirty 
than  at  twenty.  We  are  far  enough  away  from 
it  to  stand  off  and  observe  how  it  behaves  and  can 
imitate  it  better  than  if  we  still  had  it.  That  is 
one  reason  I  was  interested  in  your  Rose  last  night. 
You  played  like  a  little  girl  as  Rose  should.  You 
looked  like  a  little  girl.  But  you  couldn't  have 
given  it  that  delightfully  sure  touch  if  you  hadn't 
been  a  little  bit  grown  up.  Do  you  understand?" 

Tony  nodded. 

"I  think  so.  You  see  I  am — a  little  bit  grown 
up." 

"Don't  grow  up  any  more.  You  are  adorable  as 
you  are.  But  to  business.  Have  you  seen  my 
Madge?" 

"In  the  'End  of  the  Rainbow?'  Yes,  indeed.  I 
love  it.  You  like  the  part  too,  don't  you?  You 
play  it  as  if  you  did." 

"I  do.  I  like  it  better  than  any  I  have  had  since 
Rose.  Did  it  occur  to.  you  that  you  would  like  to 
play  Madge  yourself?" 

Tony  blushed  ingenuously. 

"Well,  yes,  it  did,"  she  admitted  half  shyly.  "Of 
course,  I  knew  I  couldn't  play  it  as  you  did.  It 


THE  KALEIDOSCOPE  REVOLVES  285 

takes  years  of  experience  and  a  real  art  like  yours 
to  do  it  like  that,  but  I  did  think  I'd  like  to  try  it 
and  see  what  I  could  do." 

Miss  Clay  nodded,  well  pleased. 

"Of  course  you  did.  Why  not?  It  is  your  kind 
of  a  role,  just  as  Rose  is.  You  and  I  are  the  same 
types.  Mr.  Hempel  has  said  that  all  along,  ever 
since  he  saw  your  Rosalind.  But  I  won't  keep  you 
in  suspense.  The  long  and  short  of  all  this  pre- 
liminary is — how  would  you  like  to  be  my  under- 
study for  Madge?'' 

"Oh,  Miss  Clay!"  Tony  gasped.  "Do  you  think 
I  could?" 

"I  know  you  could,  my  dear.  I  knew  it  all  the 
time  while  I  was  watching  you  play  Rose.  Mr. 
Hempel  has  known  it  even  longer.  I  went  to  see 
Rose  to  find  out  if  there  was  a  Madge  in  you. 
There  is.  I  told  Mr.  Hempel  so  this  morning.  He 
is  brewing  his  contracts  now  so  be  prepared.  Will 
you  try  it?" 

"I'd  love  to  if  you  and  Mr.  Hempel  think  I  can. 
I  promised  Uncle  Phil  I  would  take  a  year  of  the 
school  work  though.  Will  I  have  to  drop  that?" 

"I  think  so — most  of  it  at  least.  You  would  have 
to  be  at  the  rehearsals  usually  which  are  in  the 
morning.  You  might  have  to  play  Madge  quite 
often  then.  There  are  reasons  why  I  have  to  be 
away  a  great  deal  just  now."  Again  the  shadow 
darkened  the  star's  eyes  and  a  droop  came  to  her 
mouth.  "It  isn't  even  so  impossible  that  you 
would  be  called  upon  to  play  before  the  real  Broad- 
way audience  in  fact.  Understudies  sometimes  do 
you  know." 

Miss  Clay  was  smiling  now,  but  the  shadow  in 
her  eyes  had  not  lifted  Tony  saw. 

"I  am  particularly  anxious  to  get  a  good  under- 
study started  in  immediately,"  the  actress  con- 
tinued. "The  one  I  had  was  impossible,  did  not 


286  WILD  WINGS 


get  the  spirit  of  the  thing  at  all.  It  is  absolutely 
essential  to  have  some  one  ready  and  at  once.  My 
little  daughter  is  in  a  sanitarium  dying  with  an 
incurable  heart  leakage.  There  will  be  a  time — 
probably  within  the  next  two  months — when  I  shall 
have  to  be  away." 

Tony  put  out  her  hand  and  let  it  rest  upon  the 
other  woman's.  There  was  compassion  in  her 
young  eyes. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said  simply.  "I  didn't  know 
you  had  a  daughter.  Of  course,  I  did  know  you 
weren't  really  Miss  Clay,  that  you  were  Mrs.  Some- 
body, but  I  didn't  think  of  your  having  children. 
Somehow  we  don't  remember  actresses  may  be 
mothers  too." 

"The  actresses  remember  it — sometimes,"  said 
Miss  Clay  with  a  tremulous  little  smile.  "It  isn't 
easy  to  laugh  when  your  heart  is  heavy,  Miss  Antoi- 
nette. It  is  all  I  can  do  to  go  on  with  'Madge'  some- 
times. I  just  have  to  forget — make  myself  forget 
I  am  a  mother  and  a  wife.  Captain  Carey,  my 
husband,  is  in  the  British  Army.  He  is  in  Flanders 
now,  or  was  when  I  last  heard." 

"Oh,  I  don't  see  how  you  can  do  it — play,  I  mean," 
sighed  Tony  aghast  at  this  new  picture  the 
actress's  words  brought  up. 

"One  learns,  my  dear.  One  has  to.  An  actress 
is  two  distinct  persons.  One  of  her  belongs  to  the 
public.  The  other  is  just  a  plain  woman.  Some- 
times I  feel  as  if  I  were  far  more  the  first  than  I 
am  the  second.  There  wouldn't  be  any  more  con- 
tracts if  I  were  not.  But  never  mind  that.  To 
come  back  to  you.  Mr.  Hempel  will  send  you  a 
contract  to-morrow.  Will  you  sign  it?" 

"Yes,  if  Uncle  Phil  is  willing.  I'll  wire  him  to- 
night. I  am  almost  positive  he  will  say  yes.  He 
is  very  reasonable  and  he  will  see  what  a  wonderful, 


THE  KALEIDOSCOPE  REVOLVES  287 

wonderful  chance  this  is  for  me.  I  can't  thank 
you  enough,  Miss  Clay.  It  all  takes  my  breath 
away.  But  I  am  grateful  and  so  happy ;  you  can't 
imagine  it." 

Miss  Clay  smiled  and  drew  on  her  gloves.  The 
interview  was  over. 

"There  is  really  nothing  to  thank  me  for,"  she 
said.  "The  favor  is  on  the  other  side.  It  is  I  who 
am  lucky.  The  perfect  understudy  like  a  becoming 
hat  is  hard  to  find,  but  when  found  is  absolutely 
beyond  price.  May  I  send  you  a  pass  for  to-morrow 
night  io  the  'End  of  the  Rainbow'?  Perhaps  you 
would  like  to  see  it  again  and  play  'Madge'  with 
me  from  a  box.  The  pass  will  admit  two.  Bring 
one  of  the  lovers  if  you  like." 

Tony  wired  her  uncle  that  night.  In  the  morn- 
ing mail  arrived  Max  Hempel's  contract  as  Miss 
Clay  had  promised.  Tony  regarded  it  with  su- 
perstitious awe.  It  was  the  first  contract  she  had 
ever  seen  in  her  life,  much  less  had  offered  for  her 
signature.  The  terms  were  generous — appallingly 
so  it  seemed  to  the  girl  who  knew  little  of  such 
things  and  was  not  inclined  to  over-rate  her  powers 
financially  speaking.  She  wisely  took  the  contract 
over  to  the  school  and  got  the  manager's  advice  to 
"Go  ahead." 

"We've  nothing  comparable  to  offer  you,  Miss 
Tony.  With  Hempel  and  Miss  Clay  both  behind 
you  you  are  practically  made.  You  are  a  lucky 
little  lady.  I  know  a  dozen  experienced  actresses 
in  this  city  who  would  give  their  best  cigarette 
cases  to  be  in  your  shoes." 

Arrived  home  at  the  Hostelry,  armed  with  this 
approval,  Tony  found  her  Uncle's  answering  wire 
bidding  her  do  as  she  thought  best  and  sending 
heartiest  love  and  congratulations.  Dear  Uncle 
Phil! 


288  WILD  WINGS 


And  then  she  sat  down  and  signed  the  impressive 
document  that  made  her  Carol  Clay's  understudy 
and  a  real  wage-earning  person. 

All  the  afternoon  she  spent  in  long,  delicious, 
dreamless  slumber.  At  five  she  was  wakened  by 
the  maid  bringing  a  letter  from  Alan,  a  wonderful, 
extravagant  lover-note  such  as  only  he  could  pen. 
Later  she  bathed  and  dressed,  donning  the  white 
and  silver  gown  she  had  worn  the  night  when  she 
had  first  admitted  to  Alan  in  Carlotta's  garden  that 
she  loved  him,  first  took  his  kisses.  It  was  rather 
a  sacred  little  gown  to  Tony,  sacred  to  Alan  and 
her  own  surrender  to  love.  He  called  it  her  star- 
light dress  and  loved  it  especially  because  it  brought 
out  the  springlike,  virginal  quality  of  her  youth 
and  loveliness  as  her  other  more  sophisticated  gowns 
did  not.  Tony  wore  it  for  Alan  to-night,  wanted 
him  to  think  her  lovely,  to  love  her  immensely. 
She  wanted  to  taste  all  life's  joy  at  once,  have  a 
perfect  deluge  of  happiness.  Youth  must  be  served. 

Alan,  grateful  for  being  forgiven  so  easily,  fell 
in  with  her  mood  and  was  at  his  best,  courtly, 
considerate,  adoring.  He  exerted  all  the  magic  of 
his  not  inconsiderable  charm  to  make  Tony  forget 
that  other  unfortunate  night  when  he  had  appeared 
in  other,  less  attractive  colors.  And  Tony  was 
ready  enough  to  forget  beneath  his  worshiping 
green  eyes  and  under  the  spell  of  his  wonderful 
voice.  She  meant  to  shut  out  the  unwelcome  guests 
of  fear  and  doubt  from  her  heart,  let  love  alone 
have  sway. 

They  dined  at  a  gorgeous  restaurant  in  a  great 
hotel.  Tony  reveled  in  the  splendor  and  richness 
of  the  setting,  delighted  in  the  flawless  service,  the 
perfection  of  the  strange  and  delectable  viands 
which  Alan  ordered  for  their  consumption.  Partic- 
ularly she  delighted  in  Alan  himself  and  the  way 
he  fitted  into  the  richness  and  luxury.  It  was  his 


THE  KALEIDOSCOPE  REVOLVES  289 

rightful  setting.  She  could  not  imagine  him  in 
any  of  the  shabby  restaurants  where  she  and  Dick 
had  often  dined  so  contentedly.  Alan  was  a  born 
aristocrat,  patrician  of  the  patricians.  His  looks, 
his  manner,  everything  about  him  betrayed  it. 
Most  of  all  it  was  revealed  in  the  way  the  waiters 
scurried  to  do  his  bidding,  bowed  obsequiously 
before  him,  recognized  him  as  the  authentic  master, 
lord  of  the  purple. 

"So  Carson  really  has  gone  to  Mexico,"  Alan 
murmured  as  they  dallied  over  their  salads,  looking 
mostly  into  each  other's  eyes. 

"Yes,  he  went  yesterday.  I  hated  to  have  him 
go.  It  is  awfully  disagreeable  and  dangerous  down 
there  they  say.  He  might  get  a  fever  or  get  killed 
or  something."  Tony  absent-mindedly  nibbling  a 
piece  of  roll  already  saw  Dick  in  her  mind's  eye 
the  victim  of  an  assassin's  blade. 

"No  such  luck!"  thought  Alan  Massey  bitterly. 
The  thought  brought  a  flash  of  venom  into  his  eyes 
which  Tony  unluckily  caught. 

"Alan!  Why  do  you  hate  Dick  so?  He  never 
did  you  any  harm." 

Tony  Holiday  did  not  know  what  outrageous 
injury  Dick  had  done  his  cousin,  Alan  Massey. 

Alan  was  already  suavely  master  of  himself,  the 
venom  expunged  from  his  eyes. 

"Why  wouldn't  I  hate  him,  Antoinetta  miaf 
You  are  half  in  love  with  him." 

"I  am  not,"  denied  Tony  indignantly.  "He  is 
just  like  Lar — ."  She  broke  off  abruptly,  remem- 
bering Dick's  flare  of  resentment  at  that  familiar 
formula,  remembering  too  the  kiss  she  had  given 
him  in  the  dimly-lit  hall  in  the  Hostelry,  the  kiss 
which  had  not  been  precisely  such  a  one  as  she 
would  have  given  Larry. 

Alan's  face  darkened  again. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  are.     You  are  blushing." 


290  WILD  WINGS 


""I  am  not."  Then  putting  her  hands  up  to  her 
face  and  feeling  it  warm  she  changed  her  tactics. 
"Well,  what,  if  I  am?  I  do  care  a  lot  about  Dick. 
I  found  out  the  other  night  that  I  cared  a  whole  lot 
more  than  I  knew.  It  isn't  like  caring  for  Larry 
and  Ted.  It's  different.  For  after  all  he  isn't  my 
brother — never  was — never  will  be.  I'm  a  wretched 
flirt,  Alan.  You  know  it  as  well  as  I  do.  I've  let 
Dick  keep  on  loving  me,  knowing  all  the  time  I 
didn't  mean  to  marry  him.  And  I'm  not  a  bit  sure 
I  am  going  to  marry  you  either." 

"Tony !" 

<rWell,  anyway  not  for  a  long,  long  time.  I  wTant 
to  go  on  the  stage.  I  can't  put  all  of  myself  into 
my  work  and  give  it  to  you  at  the  same  time.  I 
don't  want  to  get  married.  I  don't  dare  to.  I  don't 
dare  even  let  myself  care  too  much.  I  want  to  be 
free." 

"You  want  to  be  loved." 

"Of  course.     Every  woman  does." 

Alan  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

"I  don't  mean  lip-worship.  You  are  a  woman, 
not  a  piece  of  statuary.  Come  on  now.  Let's 
dance." 

They  danced.  In  her  lover's  arms,  their  feet 
keeping  time  to  the  syncopated,  stirring  rhythms 
of  the  violins,  their  hearts  beating  to  a  mightier 
harmony  of  nature's  own  brewing,  Tony  Holiday 
was  far  from  being  a  piece  of  statuary.  She  was 
all  woman,  a  woman  very  much  alive  and  very 
much  in  love. 

Alan  bent  over  her. 

"Tony,  belovedest.  There  are  more  things  than 
art  in  the  world,"  he  said  softly.  "Don't  you  know 
it,  feel  it?  There  is  life.  And  life  is  bigger  than 
your  work  or  mine.  We're  both  artists,  but  we'll 
be  bigger  artists  together.  Marry  me  now.  Don't 
make  me  wait.  Don't  make  yourself  wait.  You 


THE  KALEIDOSCOPE  REVOLVES  291 

want  it  as  much  as  I  do.     Say  yes,  sweetheart,"  he 
implored. 

Tony  shook  her  head  vehemently.  She  was 
afraid.  She  knew  that  just  now  all  her  dreams  of 
success  in  her  chosen  art,  all  her  love  for  the  dear 
ones  at  home  were  as  nothing  in  comparison  with 
this  greater  thing  which  Alan  called  life  and  which 
she  felt  surging  mightily  within  her.  But  she  also 
knew  that  this  way  lay  madness,  disloyalty,  regret. 
She  must  be  strong,  strong  for  Alan  as  well  as  for 
herself. 

"Not  yet,"  she  whispered  back.  "Be  patient, 
Alan.  I  love  you,  dear.  Wait." 

The  music  came  to  an  end.  Many  eyes  followed 
the  two  as  they  went  back  to  their  places  at  the 
table.  They  were  incomparable  artists.  It  was 
worth  missing  one's  own  dance  to  see  them  have 
theirs.  Aside  from  his  wonderful  dancing  and 
striking  personality  Alan  was  at  all  times  a  marked 
figure,  attracting  attention  wherever  he  went  and 
whatever  he  did.  The  public  knew  he  had  a  super- 
lative fortune  which  he  spent  magnificently  as  a 
prince,  and  that  he  had  a  superlative  gift  which 
for  all  they  were  aware  he  had  flung  wantonly 
away  as  soon  as  the  money  came  into  his  hands. 
Moreover  he  was  even  more  interesting  because  of 
his  superlatively  bad  reputation  which  still  followed 
him.  The  public  would  have  found  it  hard  to 
believe  that  at  last  Alan  Massey  was  leading  the 
most  temperate  and  arduous  of  lives  and  devoting 
himself  exclusively  to  one  woman  whom  he  treated 
as  reverently  as  if  she  were  a  goddess.  The  gazes 
focussed  upon  Alan  now  inevitably  included 
the  girl  with  him,  as  lovely  and  young  as  spring 
itself. 

"Who  was  she?"  they  asked  each  other.  "What 
was  a  girl  like  that  doing  in  Alan  Massey's  society?" 
To*  most  of  the  observers  it  meant  but  one  thing, 


292  WILD  WINGS 


eventually  if  not  now.  Even  the  most  cynical  and 
world-hardened  thought  it  a  pity,  and  these  would 
have  been  confounded  if  they  could  have  heard  just 
now  his  passionate  plea  for  marriage.  One  did 
not  associate  marriage  with  Alan  Massey.  One 
had  not  associated  it  too  much  with  his  mother, 
one  recalled. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

TROUBLED  WATERS 

TED  HOLIDAY  drifted  into  Berry's  to  buy  floral 
offerings  for  the  reigning  goddess  who  chanced  still 
to  be  pretty  Elsie  Hathaway.  Things  had  gone  on 
gayly  since  that  night  a  month  ago  when  he  had 
stolen  that  impudent  kiss  beneath  the  crescent 
moon.  Not  that  there  was  anything  at  all  serious 
about  the  affair.  College  coquettes  must  have 
lovers,  and  Ted  Holiday  would  not  have  been  him- 
self if  there  had  not  been  a  pretty  sweetheart  on 
hand. 

By  this  time  Ted  had  far  outdistanced  the  other 
claimants  for  Elsie's  favor.  But  the  victory  had 
come  high.  His  bank  account  was  again  sadly 
humble  in  porportions  and  his  bills  at  Berry's  and 
at  the  candy  shops  were  things  not  to  be  looked 
into  too  closely.  Nevertheless  he  was  in  a  gala 
humor  that  November  morning.  Aside  from 
chronic  financial  complications  things  were  going 
very  well  with  him.  He  was  working  just  hard 
enough  to  satisfy  his  newly-awakened  common 
sense  or  conscience,  or  whatever  it  was  that  was 
operating.  He  was  having  a  jolly  good  time  with 
Elsie  and  basket  ball  and  other  things  and  college 
life  didn't  seem  quite  such  a  bore  and  burden  as  it 
had  hitherto.  Moreover  Uncle  Phil  had  just  writ- 
ten that  he  would  waive  the  ten  dollar  automobile 
tax  for  December  in  consideration  of  the  approach 
of  Christmas,  possibly  also  in  consideration  of  his 

293 


294  WILD  WINGS 


nephew's  fairly  creditable  showing  on  the  new  leaf 
of  the  ledger  though  he  did  not  say  so.  In  any 
case  it  was  a  jolly  old  world  if  anybody  asked  Ted 
Holiday  that  morning  as  he  entered  Berry's. 

He  made  straight  for  Madeline  as  he  invariably 
did.  He  was  always  friendly  and  gay  and  casual 
with  her,  always  careful  to  let  no  one  suspect  he 
had  ever  known  her  any  more  intimately  than  at 
present — not  because  he  cared  on  his  own  account — 
Ted  Holiday  was  no  snob.  But  because  he  had 
sense  to  see  it  was  better  for  Madeline  herself. 

He  was  genuinely  sorry  for  the  girl.  He  could 
not  help  seeing  how  her  despondency  grew  upon 
her  from  week  to  week  and  that  she  appeared  mis- 
erably sick  as  well  as  unhappy.  She  looked  worse 
than  usual  to-day,  he  thought,  white  and  heavy- 
eyed  and  unmistakably  heavy-hearted.  It  troubled 
him  to  see  her  so.  Ted  had  the  kindest  heart 
in  the  world  and  alwajrs  wanted  every  one  else  to 
be  as  blithely  content  with  life  as  he  was  himself. 
Accordingly  now  under  cover  of  his  purchase  of 
chrysanthemums  for  Elsie  he  managed  to  get  in  a 
word  in  her  ear. 

"You  look  as  if  you  needed  cheering  up  a  bit. 
How  about  the  movies  to-night?  Charlie's  on. 
He'll  fix  you."^ 

"No,  thank  you,  I  couldn't."  The  girl's  voice 
was  also  prudently  low,  and  she  busied  herself 
with  the  flowers  instead  of  looking  at  Ted  as  she 
spoke. 

"Why  not?"  he  challenged,  always  impelled  to 
insistence  by  denial. 

"Because  I—  And  then  to  Ted's  consternation 
the  flowers  flew  out  of  her  hands,  scattering  in  all 
directions,  her  face  went  chalky  white  and  she  fell 
forward  in  a  heavy  faint  in  Ted  Holiday's  arms. 

Ted  got  her  to  a  chair,  ordered  another  clerk  to 
get  water  and  spirits  of  ammonia  quick.  His  arm 


TROUBLED  WATERS  295 

was  still  around  her  when  Patrick  Berry  strayed  in 
from  the  back  room.  Berry's  eyes  narrowed.  He 
looked  the  girl  over  from  head  to  foot,  surveyed  Ted 
Holiday  also  with  sharp  scrutiny  and  knitted 
brows.  The  clerk  returned  with  water  and  dashed 
off  for  the  ammonia  as  ordered.  Madeline's  eyes 
opened  slowly,  meeting  Ted's  anxious  blue  ones  as 
he  bent  over  her. 

"Ted!"  she  gasped.     "Oh,  Ted!" 

Her  eyes  closed  again  wearily.  Berry's  frown 
deepened.  His  best  customer  had  hitherto  in  his 
hearing  been  invariably  addressed  by  the  girl  as 
Mr.  Holiday. 

In  a  moment  Madeline's  eyes  opened  again  and 
she  almost  pushed  Ted  away  from  her,  shooting  a 
frightened,  deprecating  glance  at  her  employer  as 
she  did  so. 

"I — I  am  all  right  now,"  she  said,  rising 
unsteadily. 

"You  are  nothing  of  the  sort,  Madeline,"  pro- 
tested Ted,  also  forgetting  caution  in  his  concern. 
"You  are  sick.  I'll  get  a  taxi  and  take  you  home. 
Mr.  Berry  won't  mind,  will  you  Berry?"  appealed 
the  best  customer,  completely  unaware  of  the  queer, 
sharp  look  the  florist  was  bending  upon  him. 

"No,  she'd  better  go,"  agreed  Berry  shortly. 
"I'll  call  a  cab."  He  walked  over  to  the  tele- 
phone but  paused,  his  hand  on  the  receiver  and 
looked  back  at  Ted.  "Where  does  she  live?"  he 
asked.  "Do  you  know?" 

"Forty-nine  Cherry,"  returned  Ted  still  uncon- 
sciously revelatory. 

The  big  Irishman  got  his  number  and  called  the 
cab.  The  clerk  came  back  with  the  ammonia  and 
vanished  with  it  into  the  back  room.  Berry  walked 
over  to  where  Ted  stood. 

"See  here,  Mr.  Holiday,"  he  said.  "I  don't  often 
go  out  of  my  way  to  give  college  boys  advice.  Ad- 


296  WILD  WINGS 


vice  is  about  the  one  thing  in  the  world  nobody 
wants.  But  I'm  going  to  give  you  a  bit.  I  like 
you  and  I  liked  your  brother  before  you.  Here's 
the  advice.  Stick  to  the  campus.  Don't  get  mixed 
up  with  Cherry  Street.  You  wanted  the  chry- 
santhemums sent  to  Miss  Hathaway,  didn't  you?" 

"I  did."  There  was  a  flash  in  Ted's  blue  eyes. 
"Send  'em  and  send  a  dozen  of  your  best  roses  to 
Miss  Madeline  Taylor,  forty-nine  Cherry  and  mind 
your  business.  There  is  the  cab.  Iteady,  Mad- 
eline?" As  the  girl  appeared  in  the  doorway  with 
her  coat  and  hat  on.  "I'll  take  you  home." 

"Oh,  no,  indeed,  it  isn't  at  all  necessary," 
protested  Madeline.  "You  have  done  quite  enough 
as  it  is,  Mr.  Holiday.  You  mustn't  bother."  The 
speaker's  tone  was  cool,  almost  cold  and  very  form- 
al. She  did  not  know  that  Patrick  Berry  had  heard 
that  very  different,  fervid,  "Ted !  Oh,  Ted !"  if  indeed 
she  knew  it  had  ever  passed  her  lips  as  she  came 
reluctantly  back  to  the  world  of  realities. 

Ted  held  the  door  open  for  her.  They  passed 
out.  But  a  moment  later  when  Berry  peered  out 
the  window  he  saw  the  cab  going  in  one  direction 
and  his  best  customer  strolling  off  in  the  other  and 
nodded  his  satisfaction. 

Sauntering  along  his  nonchalant  course,  Madeline 
Taylor  already  half  forgotten,  Ted  Holiday  came 
face  to  face  with  old  Doctor  Hendricks,  a  rosy 
cheeked,  white  bearded,  twinkling  eyed  Santa  Glaus 
sort  of  person  who  had  known  his  father  and  uncle 
and  brother  and  had  pulled  himself  through  various 
minor  itises  and  sprains.  Seeing  the  doctor 
reminded  him  of  Madeline. 

"Hello,  Doc.  Just  the  man  I  wanted  to  see. 
Want  a  job?" 

"Got  more  jobs  than  I  can  tend  to  now,  young 
man.  Anything  the  matter  with  you?  You  look 
as  tough  as  a  two  year  old  rooster." 


TROUBLED  WATERS  297 

The  old  man's  small,  kindly,  shrewd  eyes  scanned 
the  lad's  face  as  he  spoke. 

"Smoking  less,  sleeping  more,  nerves  steadier, 
working  harder,  playing  the  devil  lighter,"  he 
summed  up  silently  with  satisfaction.  "Good,  he'll 
come  out  a  Holiday  yet  if  we  give  him  time." 

"I  am  tough,"  Ted  grinned  back,  all  unconscious 
that  he  had  been  diagnosed  in  that  flitting  instant 
of  time.  "Never  felt  better  in  my  life.  Always 
agrees  with  me  to  be  in  training." 

The  old  doctor  nodded. 

"I  know.  You  young  idiots  will  mind  your 
coaches  when  you  won't  your  fathers  and  your 
doctors.  What  about  the  job?" 

"There's  a  girl  I  know  who  works  at  Berry's 
flower  shop.  I  am  afraid  she  is  sick  though  she 
won't  see  a  doctor.  She  fainted  away  just  now 
while  I  was  in  the  store,  keeled  over  into  my  arms, 
scared  me  half  out  of  my  wits.  I'm  worried  about 
her.  I  wish  you  would  go  and  see  her.  She  lives 
down  on  Cherry  Street." 

"H-m !"  The  doctor's  eyes  studied  the  boy's  face 
again  but  with  less  complacency  this  time.  Like 
Patrick  Berry  he  thought  a  young  Holiday  would 
better  stick  to  the  campus,  not  run  loose  on  Cherry 
Street. 

"Know  the  girl  well?"  he  queried. 

Ted  hesitated,  flushed,  looked  unmistakably  em- 
barrassed. 

"Yes,  rather,"  he  admitted.  "I  ran  round  with 
her  quite  a  little  the  first  of  the  summer.  I  got 
her  the  job  at  Berry's.  Her  grandfather,  a  pious 
old  stick  in  the  mud,  turned  her  out  of  his  house. 
She  had  to  do  something  to  earn  her  living.  I  hope 
she  isn't  going  to  be  sick.  It  would  be  an  awful 
mess.  She  can't  have  much  saved  up.  Go  and  see 
her,  will  you,  Doc?  Forty-nine  Cherry.  Taylor 
is  the  name." 


298  WILD  WINGS 


"H-m."  The  doctor  made  a  note  of  these  facts. 
"All  right,  I'll  go.  But  you  had  better  keep  away 
from  Cherry  Street,  young  man.  It  is  not  the  en- 
vironment you  belong  in." 

"Environment  be — blessed !"  said  Ted.  "Don't 
you  begin  on  that  sort  of  rot,  please,  Doc.  Old  Pat 
Berry's  just  been  giving  me  a  lecture  on  the  same 
subject.  You  make  me  tired  both  of  you.  As  if 
the  girls  on  Cherry  Street  weren't  as  good  any  day 
as  the  ones  on  the  campus,  just  because  they  work 
in  shops  and  stores  and  the  girls  on  the  campus 
work — us,"  he  concluded  with  a  grin.  "I'm  not  an 
infant  that  has  to  be  kept  in  a  Kiddie  coop  you 
know." 

"Look  out  you  don't  land  in  a  chicken  coop," 
sniffed  the  doctor.  "Very  well,  you  young  sinner. 
Don't  listen  to  me  if  you  don't  want  to.  I  know  I 
might  as  well  talk  to  the  wind.  You  always  were 
open  to  all  the  fool  germs  going,  Ted  Holiday. 
Some  day  you'll  own  the  old  Doc  knew  best." 

"I  wouldn't  admit  to  being  so  hanged  well  up 
on  the  chicken-roost  proposition  myself  if  I  were 
you,"  retorted  Ted  impudently.  "So  long.  I'm 
much  obliged  for  your  kind  favors  all  but  the  moral 
sentiments.  You  can  have  those  back.  You  may 
need  'em  to  use  over  again." 

So  Ted  went  on  his  way,  dropped  in  to  see  Elsie, 
had  a  cup  of  tea  and  innumerable  small  cakes, 
enjoyed  a  foxtrot  to  phonograph  music  with  the 
rug  rolled  up  out  of  the  way,  conversed  amicably 
with  the  Ancient  History  Prof,  himself,  who  wasn't 
such  a  bad  sort  as  Profs  go  and  had  the  merit  of 
being  one  of  the  few  instructors  who  had  not  flunked 
Ted  Holiday  in  his  course  the  previous  year. 

The  next  morning  Ted  found  a  letter  from  Doctor 
Hendricks  in  his  mail  which  he  opened  with  some 
curiosity  wondering  what  the  old  Doc  could  have 
to  say.  He  read  the  communication  through  in 


TROUBLED  WATERS  299 

silence  and  tucking  it  in  his  pocket  walked  out  of 
the  room  as  if  he  were  in  a  dream,  paying  no  atten- 
tion to  the  question  somebody  called  after  him  as  he 
went.  He  went  on  to  his  classes  but  he  hardly 
knew  what  was  going  on  about  him.  His  mind 
seemed  to  have  stopped  dead  like  a  stop  watch  with 
the  reading  of  the  old  doctor's  letter. 

He  understood  at  last  the  full  force  of  the  trouble 
which  engulfed  Madeline  Taylor  and  why  she  had 
said  that  it  would  have  been  better  for  her  if  that 
mad  joy  ride  with  him  had  ended  life  for  her.  The 
doctor  had  gone  to  her  as  he  had  promised  and  had 
extracted  the  whole  miserable  story.  It  seemed 
Madeline  had  married,  or  thought  she  had  married, 
Willis  Hubbard  against  her  grandfather's  express 
command,  a  few  weeks  after  Ted  had  parted  from 
her  in  Holyoke.  In  less  than  two  months  Hubbard 
had  disappeared  leaving  behind  him  the  ugly  fact 
that  he  already  had  one  wife  living  in  Kansas  City 
in  spite  of  the  pretense  of  a  wedding  ceremony 
which  he  had  gone  through  with  Madeline.  Long 
since  disillusioned  but  still  having  power  and  pride 
to  suffer  intensely  the  latter  found  herself  in  the 
tragic  position  of  being  a  wife  and  yet  no  wife.  In 
her  desperate  plight  she  besought  her  grandfather's 
clemency  and  forgiveness  but  that  rigid  old  cove- 
nanter had  declared  that  even  as  she  had  made  her 
bed  in  willful  disobedience  to  his  command  so  she 
should  lie  on  it  for  all  of  him. 

It  was  then  that  she  had  turned  as  a  last  resort 
to  Ted  Holiday  though  always  hoping  against  hope 
that  she  could  keep  the  real  truth  of  her  unhappy 
situation  from  him. 

"It  is  a  bad  affair  from  beginning  to  end,"  wrote 
the  doctor.  "I'd  like  to  break  every  rotten  bone 
in  that  scoundrel's  body  but  he  has  taken  mighty 
good  care  to  effect  a  complete  disappearance.  That 
kind  is  never  willing  to  foot  the  bills  for  their  own 


300  WILD  WINGS 


villainy.  I  am  telling  you  the  story  in  order  to 
make  it  perfectly  clear  that  you  are  to  keep  out  of 
the  business  from  now  on.  You  have  burned  your 
fingers  quite  enough  as  it  is  I  gather.  Don't  see 
the  girl.  Don't  write  her.  Don't  telephone  her. 
Let  her  alone  absolutely.  Mind,  these  aren't  polite 
requests.  They  are  orders.  And  if  you  don't  obey 
them  I'll  turn  the  whole  thing  over  to  your  uncle 
double  quick  and  I  don't  think  you  want  me  to  do 
that.  Don't  worry  about  the  girl.  I'll  look  after 
her  now  and  later  when  she  is  likely  to  need  me 
more.  But  you  keep  hands  off.  That  is  flat — the 
girl's  wish  as  well  as  my  orders." 

And  this  was  what  Ted  Holiday  had  to  carry 
about  with  him  all  that  bleak  day  and  a  half  sleep- 
less, uneasy  night.  And  in  the  morning  he  was 
summoned  home  to  the  House  on  the  Hill.  Granny 
was  dying. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

IN   DARK   PLACES 

THE  House  on  the  Hill  was  a  strange  place  to 
Tony  and  Ted  those  November  days,  stranger  than 
to  the  others  who  had  walked  day  by  day  with  the 
sense  *of  the  approaching  shadow  always  with  them. 
Death  itself  was  an  awesome  and  unaccustomed 
thing  to  them.  They  did  not  see  how  the  others 
bore  it  so  well,  took  it  all  so  calmly.  To  make 
matters  worse,  Uncle  Phil  who  never  failed  any  one 
was  stricken  down  with  a  bad  case  of  influenza  and 
was  unable  to  leave  his  bed.  This  of  course  made 
Margery  also  practically  hors  de  combat.  The 
little  folks  spent  most  of  their  time  across  the  street 
in  motherly  Mrs.  Lambert's  care.  Upon  Ned 
Holiday's  children  rested  the  chief  burden  of  the 
hour. 

Granny  was  rarely  conscious  and  all  three  of  her 
grandchildren  coveted  the  sad  privilege  of  being 
near  her  when  these  brief  moments  of  lucidity  came 
though  Tony  and  Ted  could  not  stand  long  periods 
of  watching  beside  the  still  form  as  Larry  could  and 
did.  It  was  Larry  that  she  most  often  recognized. 
Sometimes  though  he  was  his  father  to  her  and  she 
called  him  "Ned"  in  such  tones  of  yearning  tender- 
ness that  it  nearly  broke  down  his  self  control. 
Sometimes  too  he  was  Philip  to  .her  and  this  also 
was  bitterly  hard  for  Larry  missed  his  uncle's 
support  woefully  in  this  dark  hour.  Ruth,  Granny 
seemed  to  know,  oftener  indeed,  than  she  did  Tony 

301 


302  WILD  WINGS 


to  the  latter's  keen  grief  though  she  acknowledged 
the  justice  of  the  stab.  For  she  had  gone  her  self- 
ish way  leaving  the  stranger  to  play  the  loving 
granddaughter's  part. 

One  night  w^hen  the  nurse  was  resting  and  Larry 
too  had  flung  himself  upon  the  couch  in  the  living 
room  to  snatch  a  little  much  needed  relaxation, 
leaving  Ruth  in  charge  of  the  sickroom,  Ted  drifted 
in  and  demanded  to  take  his  turn  at  the  watch, 
giving  Ruth  a  chance  to  sleep.  She  demurred  at 
first,  knowing  how  hard  these  vigils  were  for  the 
restless,  unhappy  lad.  But  seeing  he  was  really  in 
earnest  she  yielded.  As  she  passed  out  of  the  room 
her  hand  rested  for  a  moment  on  the  boy's  bowed 
head.  She  had  come  to  care  a  great  deal  for  sunny, 
kind-hearted  Teddy,  loved  him  for  himself  and 
because  she  knew  he  loved  Larry  with  deep  devotion. 

He  looked  up  with  a  faint  smile  and  gave  her 
hand  a  squeeze. 

"You  are  a  darling,  Ruthie,"  he  murmured. 
"Don't  know  what  we  would  ever  do  without  you." 

And  then  he  was  alone  with  death  and  his  own 
somber  thoughts.  He  could  not  get  away  from  the 
memory  of  Madeline,  could  not  help  feeling  with  a 
terrible  weight  of  responsibility  that  he  was  more 
than  a  little  to  blame  for  her  plight.  Whether  he 
liked  to  think  it  or  not  he  couldn't  help  knowing 
that  the  whole  thing  had  started  with  that  foolish 
joy  ride  with  himself.  Madeline  had  never  risked 
her  grandfather's  displeasure  till  she  risked  it  for 
him.  She  had  never  gone  anywhere  with  Hubbard 
till  she  went  because  she  was  bitterly  angry  with 
himself  because  he  had  not  kept  his  promise — a 
promise  wrhich  never  should  have  been  made  in  the 
first  place.  And  if  he  had  not  gone  to  Holyoke, 
hadn't  behaved  like  an  idiot  that  last  night,  hadn't 
deserted  her  like  a  selfish  cad  to  save  his  own  pre- 
cious self — if  none  of  these  things  had  happened 


IN  DARK  PLACES  303 

would  Madeline  still  have  gone  to  Hubbard? 
Perhaps.  But  in  his  heart  Ted  Holiday  had  a  hate- 
ful conviction  that  she  would  not,  that  her  wretched- 
ness now  was  indirectly  if  not  directly  chargeable 
to  his  own  folly.  It  was  terrible  that  such  little 
things  should  have  such  tremendous  consequences 
but  there  it  was. 

All  his  life  Ted  Holiday  had  evaded  responsibility 
and  had  found  self  extenuation  the  easiest  thing  in 
the  world.  But  somehow  all  at  once  he  seemed  to 
have  lost  the  power  of  letting  himself  off.  He  had 
no  plea  to  offer  even  to  himself  except  "guilty." 
Was  he  going  to  do  as  Doctor  Hendricks  commanded 
and  let  Madeline  pay  the  price  of  her  own  folly 
alone  or  was  he  going  to  pay  with  her?  The  night 
was  full  of  the  question. 

The  quiet  figure  on  the  bed  stirred.  Instantly 
the  boy  had  forgotten  himself,  remembered  only 
Granny. 

He  bent  over  her. 

"Granny,  don't  you  know  me?  It's  Teddy,"  he 
pleaded. 

The  white  lips  quivered  into  a  faint  smile.  The 
frail  hand  on  the  cover  lid  groped  vaguely  for  his. 

"I  know — Teddy,"  the  lips  formed  slowly  with  an 
effort. 

Ted  kissed  her,  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"Be — a  man,  dear,"  the  lips  breathed  softly. 
"Be —  '  and  Granny  was  off  again  to  a  world  of 
unconsciousness  from  which  she  had  returned  a 
moment  to  give  her  message  to  the  grief  stricken 
lad  by  her  side. 

To  Ted  in  his  overwrought  condition  the  words 
were  almost  like  a  voice  from  heaven,  a  sacred 
command.  To  be  a  man  meant  to  face  the  hardest 
thing  he  had  ever  had  to  face  in  his  life.  It  meant 
marrying  Madeline  Taylor,  not  leaving  her  like  a 
coward  to  pay  by  herself  for  something  which  he 


304  WILD  WINGS 


himself  had  helped  to  start.  He  rose  softly  and 
went  to  the  window,  staring  out  into  the  night.  A 
few  moments  later  he  turned  back  wearing  a  strange 
uplifted  sort  of  look,  a  look  perhaps  such  as 
Percival  bore  when  he  beheld  the  Grail. 

Strange  forces  were  at  work  in  the  House  on  the 
Hill  that  night.  Ruth  had  gone  to  her  room  to  rest 
as  Ted  bade  her  but  she  had  not  slept  in  spite  of 
her  intense  weariness.  She  had  almost  lost  the 
way  of  sleep  latterly.  She  was  always  so  afraid 
of  not  being  near  when  Larry  needed  her.  The 
night  watches  they  had  shared  so  often  now  had 
brought  them  very,  very  close  to  each  other,  made 
their  love  a  very  sacred  as  well  as  very  strong  thing. 

Euth  knew  that  the  timei  was  near  now  when  she 
would  have  to  go  away  from  the  Hill.  After 
Granny  went  there  would  be  no  excuse  for  staying 
on.  If  she  did  not  go  Larry  would.  Ruth  knew 
that  very  well  and  did  not  intend  the  latter  should 
happen. 

She  had  laid  her  plans  well.  She  would  go  and 
take  a  secretarial  course  somewhere.  She  had 
made  inquiries  and  found  that  there  was  always 
demand  for  secretaries  and  that  the  training  did 
not  take  so  long  as  other  professional  education  did. 
She  could  sell  her  rings  and  live  on  the  money 
they  brought  her  until  she  was  self  supporting. 
She  did  not  want  to  dispose  of  her  pearls  if  she 
could  help  it.  She  wanted  to  hold  on  to  them  as 
the  link  to  her  lost  past.  Yes,  she  would  leave  the 
Hill.  It  was  quite  the  right  thing  to  do. 

But  oh,  what  a  hard  thing  it  was !  She  did  not 
see  how  she  was  ever  going  to  face  life  alone  under 
such  hard,  queer  conditions  without  Doctor  Philip, 
without  dear  Mrs.  Margery  and  the  children,  with- 
out Larry,  especially  without  Larry.  For  that 
matter  what  would  Larry  do  without  her?  He 
needed  her  so,  loved  her  so  much.  Poor  Larry! 


SHE  WENT  OVER  AND  LAID  A   HAND  ON  THE  BOWED   HEAD." 


IN  DARK  PLACES  305 

And  suddenly  Ruth  sat  up  in  bed.  As  clearly 
as  if  he  had  been  in  the  room  with  her  she  heard 
Larry's  voice  calling  to  her.  She  sprang  up  and 
threw  a  dark  blue  satin  negligee  around  her,  went 
out  of  the  room,  down  the  stairs,  seeming  to  know 
by  an  infallible  instinct  where  her  lover  was. 

On  the  threshold  of  the  living  room  she  paused. 
Larry  was  pacing  the  floor  nervously,  his  face  drawn 
and  gray  in  the  dim  light  of  the  flickering  gas. 
Seeing  her  he  made  a  swift  stride  in  her  direction, 
took  both  her  hands  in  his. 

"Ruth,  why  did  you  come?"  There  was  an  odd 
tension  in  his  voice. 

"You  called  me,  didn't  you?  I  thought  you  did." 
Her  eyes  were  wondering.  "I  heard  you  say  'Ruth' 
as  plain  as  anything." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"No,  I  didn't  call  you  out  loud.  Maybe  I  did 
with  my  heart  though.  I  wanted  you  so." 

He  dropped  her  hands  as  abruptly  as  he  had 
taken  them. 

"Ruth,  I've  got  to  marry  you.  I  can't  go  on  like 
this.  I've  tried  to  fight  it,  to  be  patient  and  hang 
on  to  myself  as  Uncle  Phil  wanted  me  to.  But  I 
can't  go  on.  I'm  done." 

He  flung  himself  into  a  chair.  His  head  went 
down  on  the  table.  The  clock  ticked  quietly  on 
the  mantel.  What  was  Death  upstairs  to  Time? 
What  were  Youth  and  Love  and  Grief  down  here? 
These  things  were  merely  eddies  in  the  great  tide 
of  Eternity. 

For  a  moment  Ruth  stood  very  still.  Then  she 
went  over  and  laid  a  hand  on  the  bowed  head,  the 
hand  that  wore  the  wedding  ring. 

"Larry,  Larry  dear,"  she  said  softly.  "Don't 
give  up  like  that.  It  breaks  my  heart."  There 
was  a  faint  tremor  in  her  voice,  a  hint  of  tears  not 
far  off. 


306  WILD  WINGS 


He  lifted  his  head,  the  strain  of  his  long  self 
mastering  wearing  thin  almost  to  the  breaking  point 
at  last,  for  once  all  but  at  the  mercy  of  the  dominant 
emotion  which  possessed  him,  his  love  for  the  girl 
at  his  side  who  stood  so  close  he  could  feel  her 
breathing,  got  the  faint  violet  fragrance  of  her. 
And  yet  he  must  not  so  much  as  touch  her  hand. 

The  clock  struck  three,  solemn,  inexorable  strokes. 
Ruth  and  Larry  and  the  clock  seemed  the  only 
living  things  in  the  quiet  house.  Larry  brushed 
his  hand  over  his  eyes,  got  to  his  feet. 

"Ruth,  will  you  marry  me?" 

"Yes,  Larry." 

The  shock  of  her  quiet  consent  brought  Larry 
back  a  little  to  realities. 

"Wait,  Ruth.  Don't  agree  too  soon.  Do  you 
realize  what  it  means  to  marry  me?  You  may  be 
married  already.  Your  husband  may  return  and 
find  you  living — illegally — with  me." 

"I  know,"  said  Ruth  steadily.  "There  must  be 
something  wrong  with  me,  Larry.  I  can't  seem  to 
care.  I  can't  seem  to  make  myself  feel  as  if  I 
belonged  to  any  one  else  except  to  you.  I  don't 
think  I  do  belong  to  any  one  else.  I  was  born  over 
in  the  wreck.  I  was  born  yours.  You  saved  me. 
I  would  have  died  if  you  hadn't  gotten  me  out 
from  under  the  beams  and  worked  over  and  brought 
me  back  to  life  when  everybody  else  gave  me  up 
as  dead.  I  wouldn't  have  been  alive  for  my  husband 
if  you  hadn't  saved  me.  I  am  yours,  Larry.  If 
you  want  me  to  marry  you  I  will.  If  you  want 
me — any  way — I  am  yours.  I  love  you." 

"Ruth !" 

Larry  drew  her  into  his  arms  and  kissed  her — 
the  first  time  he  had  ever  kissed  any  girl  in  his  life 
except  his  sister.  She  lay  in  his  arms,  her  fragrant 
pale  gold  hair  brushing  his  cheek.  He  kissed  her 
over  and  over  passionately,  alinostly  roughly  in  the 


IN  DARK  PLACES  307 

storm  of  his  emotion  suddenly  unpent.  Then  he 
was  Larry  Holiday  again.  He  pushed  her  gently 
from  him,  remorse  in  his  gray  eyes. 

"Forgive  me,  Kuth.  It's  all  wrong.  I'm  all 
wrong.  We  can't  do  it.  I  shouldn't  have  kissed 
you.  I  shouldn't  have  touched  you — shouldn't 
have  let  you  come  to  me  like  this.  You  must  go 
now,  dear.  I  am  sorry." 

Ruth  faced  him  in  silence  a  moment  then  bowed 
her  head,  turned  and  walked  away  to  the  door 
meekly  like  a  chidden  child.  Her  loosened  hair 
fell  like  a  golden  shower  over  her  shoulders.  It 
was  "all  Larry  could  do  to  keep  from  going  after 
her,  taking  her  in  his  arms  again.  But  he  stood 
grimly  planted  by  the  table,  gripping  its  edge  as  if 
to  keep  himself  anchored.  He  dared  not  stir  one 
inch  toward  that  childish  figure  in  the  dark  robe. 

On  the  threshold  Ruth  turned,  flung  back  her 
hair  and  looked  back  at  him.  There  was  a  kind  of 
fearless  exaltation  and  pride  on  her  lovely  young 
face  and  in  her  shining  eyes. 

"I  don't  know  whether  you  are  right  or  wrong, 
Larry,  or  rather  when  you  are  right  and  when  you 
are  wrong.  It  is  all  mixed  up.  It  seems  as  if  it 
must  be  right  to  care  or  we  wouldn't  be  doing  it  so 
hard,  as  if  God  couldn't  let  us  love  like  this  if  he 
didn't  mean  we  should  be  happy  together,  belong 
to  each  other.  Why  should  He  make  love  if  He 
didn't  want  lovers  to  be  happy?" 

It  was  an  argument  as  old  as  the  garden  of  Eden 
but  to  Ruth  and  Larry  it  was  as  if  it  were  being 
pronounced  for  the  first  time  for  themselves,  here 
in  the  dead  of  night,  in  the  old  House  on  the  Hill, 
as  they  felt  themselves  drawn  to  each  other  by  the 
all  but  irresistible  impulse  of  their  mutual  love. 

"Maybe,"  went  on  Ruth,  "I  forgot  my  morals 
along  with  the  rest  I  forgot.  I  don't  seem  to  care 
very  much  about  right  and  wrong  to-night.  You 


308  WILD  WINGS 


called  me.  I  heard  you  and  I  came.  I  am  here." 
Her  lovely,  proud  little  head  was  thrown  back,  her 
eyes  still  shining  with  that  fearless  elation. 

"Kuth!  Don't,  dear.  You  don't  know  what 
you  are  saying.  I've  got  to  care  about  right  and 
wrong  for  both  of  us.  Please  go.  I — I  can't  stand 
it." 

He  left  his  post  by  the  table  then  came  forward 
and  held  open  the  door  for  her.  She  passed  out, 
went  up  the  stairs,  her  hair  falling  in  a  wave 
of  gold  down  to  her  waist.  She  did  not  turn 
back. 

Larry  waited  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  until  he 
heard  the  door  of  her  room  close  upon  her  and  then 
he  too  went  up,  to  Granny's  room.  Ted  met  him 
at  the  threshold  in  a  panic  of  fear  and  grief. 

"Larry — I  think — oh — "  and  Ted  bolted  unable 
to  finish  what  he  had  begun  to  say  or  to  linger  on 
that  threshold  of  death. 

The  nurse  was  bending  over  Madame  Holiday 
forcing  some  brandy  between  the  blue  lips.  Larry 
was  by  the  bedside  in  an  instant.  The  nurse 
stepped  back  with  a  sad  little  shake  of  the  head. 
There  was  nothing  she  could  do  and  she  knew  it, 
knew  also  there  was  nothing  the  young  doctor  could 
do  professionally.  He  knelt,  chafed  the  cold  hands. 
The  pale  lips  quivered  a  little,  the  glazed  eyes 
opened  for  a  second. 

"Ned — Larry — give  Philip  love — "  That  was  all. 
The  eyes  closed.  There  was  a  little  flutter  of  pass- 
ing breath.  Granny  was  gone. 

It  was  two  days  after  Granny's  funeral.  Ted  had 
.gone  back  to  college.  Tony  would  leave  for  New 
York  on  the  morrow.  Life  cannot  wait  on  death. 
It  must  go  on  its  course  as  inevitably  as  a  river 
must  go  its  way  to  the  sea. 

Yet  to  Tony  it  seemed  sad  and  heartless  that  it 
should  be  so.  She  was  troubled  by  her  selfishness, 


IN  DARK  PLACES 


first  to  Granny  living  and  now  to  Granny  dead. 
She  said  as  much  to  her  uncle  sorrowfully. 

"It  isn't  really  heartless  or  unkind,"  he  com- 
forted her.  "We  have  to  go  on  with  our  work. 
We  can't  lay  it  down  or  scamp  it  just  because  dear 
Granny's  work  is  done.  It  is  no  more  wrong  for 
you  to  go  back  to  your  play  than  it  is  for  me  to  go 
back  to  my  doctoring." 

"I  know,"  sighed  Tony.  "But  I  can't  help  feel- 
ing remorseful.  I  had  so  much  time  and  Granny 
had  so  little  and  yet  I  wasn't  willing  to  give  her 
even  a  little  of  mine.  I  would  have  if  I  had  known 
though.  I  knew  I  was  selfish  but  I  didn't  know 
how  selfish.  I  wish  you  had  told  me,  Uncle  Phil. 
Why  didn't  you?  You  told  Kuth.  You  let  her 
help.  Why  wouldn't  you  let  me?"  she  half 
reproached. 

"I  tried  to  do  what  was  best  for  us  all.  I  wanted 
to  find  a  reason  for  keeping  Kuth  with  us  and  I  did 
not  think  then  and  I  don't  think  now  that  it  was 
right  or  necessary  to  keep  you  back  for  the  little 
comfort  it  could  have  brought  to  Granny.  You 
must  not  worry,  dear  child.  The  blame  if  there  is 
any  is  mine.  I  know  you  would  have  stayed  if  I 
had  let  you." 

Back  in  college  Ted  sorted  out  his  personal  letters 
from  the  sheaf  of  bills.  Among  them  was  one  from 
Madeline  Taylor,  presumably  the  answer  to  the  one 
Ted  had  written  her  from  the  House  on  the  Hill. 
He  stared  at  the  envelope,  dreading  to  open  it. 
He  was  too  horribly  afraid  of  what  it  might  contain. 
Suddenly  he  threw  the  letter  down  on  the  table 
and  his  head  went  down  on  top  of  it. 

"I  can't  do  it,"  he  groaned.  "I  can't.  I  won't. 
It's  too  hard." 

But  in  a  moment  his  head  popped  up  again 
fiercely. 

"Confound  you!"  he  muttered.     "You  can  and 


310  WILD  WINGS 


you  will.     You've  got  to.     You've  made  your  bed. 
Now  lie  on  it."     And  he  opened  the  letter. 

"I  can't  tell  you,"  wrote  the  girl,  "how  your 
letter  touched  ine.  Don't  think  I  don't  understand 
that  it  isn't  because  you  love  me  or  really  want  to 
marry  me  that  you  are  asking  me  to  do  it.  It  is 
all  the  finer  and  more  wonderful  because  you  don't 
and  couldn't,  ever.  You  had  nothing  to  gain— 
everything  to  lose.  Yet  you  offered  it  all  as  if  it 
were  the  most  ordinary  gift  in  the  world  instead 
of  the  biggest. 

"Of  course,  I  can't  let  you  sacrifice  yourself  like 
that  for  me.  Did  you  really  think  I  would?  I 
wouldn't  let  you  be  dragged  down  into  my  life  even 
if  you  loved  me  which  you  don't.  Some  day  you 
will  want  to  marry  a  girl — not  somebody  like  me — 
but  your  own  kind  and  you  can  go  to  her  clean 
because  you  never  hurt  me,  never  did  me  anything 
but  good  ever.  You  lifted  me  up  always.  But 
there  must  have  been  something  still  stronger  that 
pulled  me  down.  I  couldn't  stay  up.  I  was  never 
your  kind  though  I  loved  you  just  as  much  as  if  I 
were.  Forgive  my  saying  it  just  this  once.  It 
will  be  the  last  time.  This  is  really  good-by. 
Thank  you  over  and  over  for  everything, 

"Madeline." 

A  mist  blurred  Ted  Holiday's  eyes  as  he  finished 
the  letter.  He  was  free.  The  black  winged  vulture 
thing  which  had  hovered  over  him  for  days  was 
gone.  By  and  by  he  would  be  thankful  for  his 
deliverance  but  just  now  there  was  room  only  in 
his  chivalrous  boy's  heart  for  one  overmastering 
emotion,  pity  for  the  girl  and  her  needlessly 
wrecked  life.  What  a  hopeless  mess  the  whole 
thing  was!  And  what  could  he  do  to  help  her 
since  she  would  not  take  what  he  had  offered  in  all 
sincerity?  He  must  think  out  a  way  somehow. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE  PEDIGREE  OF  PEARLS 

"WHERE  is  Larry?"  asked  Doctor  Holiday  a  few 
days  later  coming  into  the  dining  room  at  supper- 
timer  "I  haven't  seen  him  all  the  afternoon." 

Margery  dropped  into  her  chair  with  a  tired  little 
sigh. 

"There  is  a  note  from  him  at  your  place.  I 
think  he  has  gone  out  of  town.  John  told  me  he 
took  him  to  the  three  ten  train." 

"H-m!"  mused  the  doctor.  "Where  is  Ruth?" 
he  looked  up  to  ask. 

"Ruth  went  to  Boston  at  noon.  At  least  so 
Bertha  tells  me."  Bertha  was  the  maid.  "She 
did  not  say  good-by  to  me.  I  thought  possibly  she 
had  to  you!" 

Her  husband  shook  his  head,  perplexed  and 
troubled. 

"Dear  Uncle  Phil,"  ran  Larry's  message. 

"Ruth  has  gone  to  Boston.  She  left  a  letter  for 
me  saying  good-by  and  asking  me  to  say  good-by 
to  the  rest  of  you  for  her.  Said  she  would  write 
as  soon  as  she  had  an  address  and  that  no  one  was 
to  worry  about  her.  She  would  be  quite  all  right 
and  thought  it  was  best  not  to  bother  us  by  telling 
us  about  her  plans  until  she  was  settled." 

"Of  course  I  am  going  after  her.  I  don't  know 
where  she  is  but  I'll  find  her.  I've  got  to,  especially 
as  I  was  the  one  who  drove  her  away.  I  broke  my 
promise  to  you.  I  did  make  love  to  her  and  asked 

311 


312  WILD  WINGS 


her  to  marry  me  the  night  Granny  died.  She  said 
she  would  and  then  of  course  I  said  she  couldn't 
and  we've  not  seen  each  other  alone  since  so  I  don't 
know  what  she  thinks  now.  I  don't  know  anything 
except  that  I'm  half  crazy." 

"I  know  it  is  horribly  selfish  to  go  off  and  leave 
you  like  this  when  you  need  me  ^specially.  Please 
forgive  me.  I'll  be  back  as  soon  as  I  can  or  send 
Ruth  or  we'll  both  come.  And  don't  worry..  I'm 
not  going  to  do  anything  rash  or  wrong  or  anything1 
that  will  hurt  you  or  Ruth.  I  am  sorry  about  the 
other  night.  I  didn't  mean  to  smash  up  like  that." 

The  doctor  handed  the  letter  over  to  his  wife. 

"Why  didn't  he  wait  until  he  had  her  address? 
How  can  he  possibly  find  her  in  a  city  like  Boston 
with  not  the  slightest  thing  to  go  on?" 

Doctor  Holiday  smiled  wearily. 

"Wait!  Do  you  see  Larry  waiting  when  Ruth 
is  out  of  his  sight?  My  dear,  don't  you  know 
Larry  is  the  maddest  of  the  three  when  he  gets 
under  way?" 

"The  maddest  and  the  finest.  Don't  worry,  Phil. 
He  is  all  right.  He  won't  do  anything  rash  just  as 
he  tells  you." 

"You  can't  trust  a  man  in  love,  especially  a  young 
idiot  who  waited  a  full  quarter  century  to  get  the 
disease  for  the  first  time.  But  you  are  right.  I'd 
trust  him  anywhere,  more  rather  than  less  because 
of  that  confession  of  his.  I've  wondered  that  he 
didn't  break  his  promise  long  before  this.  He  is 
only  human  and  his  restraint  has  been  pretty  nearly 
super-human.  I  don't  believe  he  would  have 
smashed  up  now  as  he  calls  it  if  his  nerves  hadn't 
been  strained  about  to  the  limit  by  taking  all  the 
responsibility  for  Granny  at  the  end.  It  was 
terrible  for  the  poor  lad." 

"It  was  terrible  for  you  too,  Phil.  Larry  isn't 
the  only  one  who  has  suffered.  I  do  wish  those 


THE  PEDIGREE  OF  PEARLS  313 

foolish  youngsters  could  have  waited  a  little  and 
not  thrown  a  new  anxiety  on  you  just  now.  But  I 
suppose  we  can't  blame  them  under  the  cir- 
cumstances. Isn't  it  strange,  dear?  Except  for 
the  children  sleeping  up  in  the  nursery  you  and  I 
are  absolutely  alone  for  the  first  time  since  I  came 
to  the  House  on  the  Hill." 

He  nodded  a  little  sadly.  His  father  was  gone 
long  since  and  now  Granny  too.  And  Ned's  chil- 
dren were  all  grown  up,  would  perhaps  none  of 
them  ever  come  again  in  the  old  way.  Their  wings 
were  strong  enough  now  to  make  strange  flights. 
"We've  filled  your  life  rather  full,  Margery 
mine,"  he  said.  "I  hope  there  are  easier  days 
ahead." 

"I  don't  want  any  happier  ones,"  said  Margery 
as  she  slipped  her  hand  into  his. 

The  next  few  days  were  a  perfect  nightmare  to 
Larry.  Naturally  he  found  no  trace  of  Ruth,  did 
not  know  indeed  under  what  name  she  had  chosen 
to  go.  The  city  had  swallowed  her  up  and  the 
saddest  part  of  it  was  she  had  wanted  to  be  swal- 
lowed, to  get  away  from  himself.  She  had  gone 
for  his  sake  he  knew,  because  he  had  told  her  he 
could  endure  things  no  longer.  She  had  taken  him 
at  his  word  and  vanished  utterly.  For  all  her 
gentleness  and  docility  Ruth  had  tremendous  for- 
titude. She  had  taken  this  hard,  rash  step  alone  in 
the  dark  for  love's  sake,  just  as  she  was  ready  that 
unforgettable  night  to  take  that  rasher  step  with 
him  to  marriage  or  something  less  than  marriage 
had  he  permitted  it.  She  would  have  preferred  to 
marry  him,  not  to  bother  with  abstractions  of  right 
and  wrong,  to  take  happiness  as  it  offered  but  since 
he  would  not  have  it  so  she  had  lost  herself. 

Despair,  remorse,  anxiety,  loneliness  held  him 
in  thrall  while  he  roamed  the  streets  of  the  old  city, 
almost  hopeless  now  of  finding  her  but  still  dog- 


314  WILD  WINGS 


gedly  persistent  in  his  search.  Another  man  under 
such  a  strain  of  mind  and  body  would  have  gone  oil 
a  stupendous  thought  drowning  carouse.  Larry 
Holiday  had  no  such  refuge  in  his  misery.  He 
took  it  straight  without  recourse  to  anaesthetic  of 
any  sort.  And  on  the  fourth  day  when  he  had 
been  about  to  give  up  in  defeat  and  go  home  to  the 
Hill  to  wait  for  word  of  Ruth  a  crack  of  light 
dawned. 

Chancing  to  be  strolling  absent  mindedly  across 
the  Gardens  he  ran  into  a  college  classmate  of  his, 
one  Gary  Eldridge,  who  shook  his  hand  with  crush- 
ing grip  and  announced  that  it  was  a  funny  thing 
Larry's  bobbing  up  like  that  because  he  had  been 
hearing  the  latter's  name  pretty  consecutively  all 
the  previous  afternoon  on  the  lips  of  the  daintiest 
little  blonde  beauty  it  had  been  his  luck  to  behold 
in  many  a  moon,  a  regular  Greuze  girl  in  fact,  eyes 
and  all. 

Naturally  there  was  no  escape  for  Eldridge  after 
that.  Larry  Holiday  grabbed  him  firmly  and 
demanded  to  know  if  he  had  seen  Ruth  Annersley 
and  if  he  had  and  knew  where  she  was  to  tell  him 
everything  quick.  It  was  important. 

Considering  Larry  Holiday's  haggard  face  and 
tense  voice  Eldridge  admitted  the  importance  and 
spun  his  yarn.  No,  he  did  not  know  where  Ruth 
Annersley  was  nor  if  the  Greuze  girl  was  Ruth 
Annersley  at  all.  He  did  know  the  person  he  meant 
was  in  the  possession  of  the  famous  Farringdou 
pearls,  a  fact  immensely  interesting  to  Fitch  and 
Larrabee,  the  jewelers  in  whose  employ  he  was. 

"Your  Ruth  Annersley  or  Farringdon  or  whoever 
she  is  brought  the  pearls  in  to  our  place  yesterday 
to  have  them  appraised.  You  can  bet  we  sat  up 
and  took  notice.  We  didn't  know  they  had  left 
Australia  but  here  they  were  right  under  our  noses 
absolutely  unmistakable,  one  of  the  finest  sets  of 


THE  PEDIGREE  OF  PEARLS  315 

matched  pearls  in  the  world.  You  Holidays  are 
so  hanged  smart.  I  wonder  it  didn't  occur  to  you 
to  bring  'em  to  us  anyway.  We're  the  boys  that 
can  tell  you  who's  who  in  the  lapidary  world. 
Pearls  have  pedigrees,  my  dear  fellow,  quite  as 
faithfully  recorded  as  those  of  prize  pigs." 

Larry  thumped  his  cranium  disgustedly.  It  did 
seem  ridiculous  now  that  the  very  simple  expedient 
of  going  to  the  master  jewelers  for  information  had 
not  struck  any  of  them.  But  it  hadn't  and  that 
was  the  end  of  it.  He  made  Eldridge  sit  down  in 
the  Gardens  then  and  there  however  to  tell  him  all 
he  knew  about  the  pearls  but  first  and  most  impor- 
tant did  the  other  have  any  idea  where  the  owner 
of  the  pearls  was?  He  had  none.  The  girl  was 
coming  in  again  in  a  few  days  to  hear  the  result  of 
a  cable  they  had  sent  to  Australia  where  the  pearls 
had  been  the  last  Larrabee  and  Fitch  knew.  She 
had  left  no  address.  Eldridge  rather  thought  she 
hadn't  cared  to  be  found.  Larry  bit  his  lip  at  that 
and  groaned  inwardly.  He  too  was  afraid  it  was 
only  too  true,  and  it  was  all  his  fault. 

This  was  the  story  of  the  pearls  as  his  friend 
briefly  outlined  it  for  Larry  Holiday's  benefit.  The 
Farringdon  pearls  had  originally  belonged  to  a 
Lady  Jane  Farringdon  of  Farringdon  Court,  Eng- 
land. They  had  been  the  gift  of  a  rejected  lover 
who  had  gone  to  Africa  to  drown  his  disappointment 
and  had  died  there  after  having  sent  the  pearls 
home  to  the  woman  he  had  loved  fruitlessly  and 
who  was  by  this  time  the  wife  of  another  man,  her 
distant  cousin  Sir  James  Farringdon.  At  her 
death  Lady  Jane  had  given  the  pearls  to  her  oldest 
son  for  his  bride  when  he  should  have  one.  He 
too  had  died  however  before  he  had  attained  to  the 
bride.  The  pearls  went  to  his  younger  brother 
Roderick  a  sheep  raiser  in  Australia  who  had 
amassed  a  fortune  and  discarded  the  title.  The 


316  WILD  WINGS 


sheep  raiser  married  an  Australian  girl  and  gave 
her  the  pearls.  They  had  two  children,  a  girl  and 
a  boy.  Roderick  was  since  deceased.  Possibly  his 
wife  also  was  dead.  They  had  cabled  to  find  out 
details.  But  it  looked  as  if  the  little  blonde  lady 
who  possessed  the;  pearls  although  she  did  not 
know  where  she  got  them  was  in  all  probability  the 
daughter  of  Eoderick  Farringdon,  the  granddaugh- 
ter of  the  famous  beauty,  Lady  Jane.  She  was 
probably  also  a  great  heiress..  The  sheep  raiser  and 
his  father-in-law  had  both  been  reported  to  be 
wallowing  in  money.  "Oh  boy!"  Eldridge  had 
ended  significantly. 

"But  if  Ruth  is  a  person  of  so  much  importance 
why  did  they  let  her  travel  so  far  alone  with  those 
valuable  pearls  in  her  possession?  Why  haven't 
they  looked  her  up?  I  suppose  she  told  you  about 
the  wreck  and — the  rest  of  it?" 

"She  did,  sang  the  praises  of  the  family  of 
Holiday  in  a  thousand  keys.  Your  advertisements 
were  all  on  the  Annersley  track  you  see  and  they 
would  all  be  out  on  the  Farringdon  one.  The 
paths  didn't  happen  to  cross  I  suppose." 

"You  don't  know  anything  about  Geoffrey 
Annersley  do  you?"  Larry  asked  anxiously. 

"Not  a  thing.  We  are  jewelers  not  detectives 
or  clairvoyants.  It  is  only  the  pearls  we  are  up  on 
and  we've  evidently  slipped  a  cog  on  them.  We 
should  have  known  when  they  came  to  the  States 
but  we  didn't." 

"I'll  cable  the  American  consul  at  Australia  my- 
self. It's  the  first  real  clue  we  have  had — the  rest 
has  been  working  in  the  dark.  The  first  thing 
-hough  is  to  find  Ruth."  And  Larry  Holiday  looked 
so  very  determined  and  capable  of  doing  any- 
thing he  set  out  to  do  that  Gary  Eldridge  grinned  a 
little. 

"Wonderful  what  falling  in  love  will  do  for  a 


THE  PEDIGREE  OF  PEARLS  317 

chap,"  he  reflected.  "Used  to  think  old  Larry  was 
rather  a  slow  poke  but  he  seems  to  have  developed 
into  some  whirlwind.  Don't  wonder  considering1 
what  a  little  peach  the  girl  is.  Hope  the  good  Lord 
has  seen  fit  to  recall  Geoffrey  Annersley  to  his 
heaven  if  he  really  did  marry  her." 

Aloud  he  promised  to  telephone  Larry  the  mo- 
ment the  owner  of  the  pearls  crossed  the  threshold 
of  Larrabee  and  Fitch  and  to  hold  her  by  main 
force  if  necessary  until  Larry  could  get  there.  In 
the  meantime  he  suggested  that  she  had  seem- 
ed awfully  interested  in  the  Australia  part  of  the 
story  and  it  was  very  possible  she  had  gone  to 
the— 

"Library."  Larry  took  the  words  out  of  his 
mouth  and  bolted  without  any  formality  of  fare- 
well into  the  nearest  subway  entrance. 

His  friend  gazed  after  him. 

"And  this  is  Larry  Holiday  who  used  to  flee  if 
a  skirt  fluttered  in  his  direction,"  he  murmured. 
"Ah  well,  it  takes  us  differently.  But  it  gets  us 
all  sooner  or  later." 

Larry's  luck  had  turned  at  last.  In  the  reading 
room  of  the  Public  Library  he  discovered  a  familiar 
blonde  head  bent  over  a  book.  He  strode  to  the 
secluded  corner  where  she  sat  "reading  up"  on 
Australia. 

"Ruth !"  Larry  tried  to  speak  quietly  though 
he  felt  like  raising  the  echoes  of  the  sacred  scholarly 
precincts. 

The  reader  looked  up  startled,  wondering.  Her 
face  lit  with  quick  delight. 

"Larry,  oh  Larry,  I'm  finding  myself,"  she  whis- 
pered breathlessly. 

"I'm  glad  but  I'm  gladder  that  I'm  finding — 
yourself.  Come  on  outside  sweetheart.  I  want  to 
shout.  I  can't  whisper  and  I  won't.  I'll  get  us 
both  put  out  if  you  won't  come  peaceably." 


318  WILD  WINGS 


"I'll  come,"  said  Ruth  meekly. 

Outside  in  the  corridor  she  raised  blue  eyes  to 
gray  ones. 

"I  didn't  mean  you  to  find  me — yet,"  she  sighed. 

"So  I  should  judge.  I  didn't  think  a  mite  of  a 
fairy  girl  like  you  could  be  so  cruel.  Some  day 
I'll  exact  full  penance  for  all  you've  made  me  suffer 
but  just  now  we'll  waive  that  and  go  over  to  the 
Plaza  and  have  a  high  tea  and  talk.  But  first  I'm 
going  to  kiss  you.  I  don't  care  if  people  are  look- 
ing. All  Boston  can  look  if  it  likes.  I'm  going 
to  do  it." 

But  it  was  only  a  scrub  woman  and  not  all 
Boston  who  witnessed  that  kiss,  and  she  paid  no 
attention  to  the  performance.  Even  had  she  seen 
it  is  hardly  probable  that  she  would  have  been 
vastly  startled  at  the  sight.  She  was  a  very  old 
woman  and  more  than  likely  she  had  seen  such 
sights  before.  Perhaps  she  had  even  been  kissed 
/by  a  man  herself,  once  upon  a  time.  We  hope  so. 

The  next  day  Larry  and  Ruth  came  home  to  the 
Hill,  radiantly  happy  and  full  of  their  strange 
adventures.  Ruth  was  wearing  an  immensely  be- 
coming new  dark  blue  velvet  suit,  squirrel  furs  and 
a  new  hat  which  to  Margery's  shrewd  feminine  eyes 
betrayed  a  cost  all  out  of  proportion  to  its  minute- 
ness. She  was  looking  exquisitely  lovely  in  her 
new  finery.  Scant  wonder  Larry  could  not  keep 
his  eyes  off  of  her.  Margery  and  Philip  were  some- 
thing in  the  same  state. 

"On  the  strength  of  my  being  an  heiress  maybe 
Larry  thought  I  might  afford  some  new  clothes," 
Ruth  confessed.  "Of  course  he  paid  for  them— 
temporarily,"  she  had  added  with  a  charming  blush 
and  a  side  long,  deprecating  glance  at  Doctor 
Holiday,  senior.  She  did  not  want  him  to  dis- 
approve of  her  for  letting  Larry  buy  her  pretty 
clothes  nor  blame  Larry  for  doing  it. 


THE  PEDIGREE  OF  PEARLS  319 

But  he  only  laughed  and  remarked  that  he  would 
have  gone  shopping  with  her  himself  if  he  had  any 
idea  the  results  would  be  so  satisfactory. 

It  was  only  when  he  was  alone  with  Margery 
that  he  shook  his  head. 

"Those  crazy  children  behave  as  if  everything 
were  quite  all  right  and  as  if  they  could  run  right 
out  any  minute  and  get  married.  She  doesn't  even 
wear  her  ring  any  more  and  they  both  appear  to 
think  the  fact  it  presumably  represents  can  be 
disposed  of  as  summarily." 

"Let  them  alone,"  advised  his  wife.  "They  are 
all  right.  It  won't  do  them  a  bit  of  harm  to  let 
themselves  go  a  bit.  Larry  does  his  worshiping 
with  his  eyes  and  maybe  with  his  tongue  when  they 
are  alone.  I  don't  blame  him.  She  is  a  perfect 
darling.  And  it  is  much  better  for  him  not  to 
pretend  he  doesn't  care  when  we  all  know  he  does 
tremendously.  It  was  crushing  it  all  back  that 
made  him  so  miserable  and  smash  up  as  he  wrote 
you.  I  don't  believe  he  smashed  very  irretrievably 
anyway.  He  is  too  much  of  a  Holiday." 

The  doctor  smiled  a  little  grimly. 

"You  honor  us,  my  dear.  Even  Holidays  are 
men !" 

"Thank  heaven,"  said  Margery. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE  FIERY  FURNACE 

A  few  days  after  the  return  of  Larry  and  Ruth 
to  the  Hill  Doctor  Holiday  found  among  his  mail 
an  official  looking  document  bearing  the  seal  of 
the  college  which  Ted  attended  and  which  was  also 
his  own  and  Larry's  alma  mater.  He  opened  it 
carelessly  supposing  it  to  be  an  alumni  appeal  of 
some  sort  but  as  his  eyes  ran  down  the  typed  sheet 
his  face  grew  grave  and  his  lips  set  in  a  tight  line. 
The  communication  was  from  the  president  and 
informed  its  recipient  that  his  nephew  Edward 
Holiday  was  expelled  from  the  college  on  the 
confessed  charge  of  gambling. 

"We  are  particularly  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  take 
this  action,"  wrote  the  president,  "inasmuch  as 
Edward  has  shown  recently  a  marked  improvement 
both  in  class-room  work  and  general  conduct  which 
has  gone  far  to  eradicate  the  unfortunate  impres- 
sion made  by  the  lawlessness  of  his  earlier  career. 
But  we  cannot  overlook  so  flagrant  an  offense  and 
are  regretfully  forced  to  make  an  example  of  the 
offender.  As  you  know  gambling  is  strictly  against 
the  rules  of  the  institution  and  your  nephew  played 
deliberately  for  high  stakes  as  he  admits  and  made 
a  considererable  sum  of  money — three  hundred 
dollars  to  be  precise — which  he  disposed  of  imme- 
diately for  what  purpose  he  refuses  to  tell.  Again 
regretting,"  et  cetera,  et  cetera,  the  letter  closed. 

But  there  was  also  a  hand  written  postcript  and 
an  enclosure. 

The  postcript  ran  as  follows: 

320 


THE  FIERY  FURNACE  321 

"As  a  personal  friend  and  not  as  the  president 
of  the  college  I  am  sending  on  the  enclosed  which 
may  or  may  not  be  of  importance.  A  young  girl, 
Madeline  Taylor  by  name,  of  Florence,  Massa- 
chusetts, who  has  until  recently  been  employed  in 
Berry's  flower  shop,  was  found  dead  this  morning 
with  the  gas  jet  fully  turned  on,  the  inference  being 
clearly  suicide.  A  short  time  ago  a  servant  from 
the  lodging  house  where  the  dead  girl  resided  came 
to  me  with  a  letter  addressed  to  your  nephew.  It 
seems  Miss  Taylor  had  given  the  girl  the  letter  to 
mail  the  previous  evening  and  had  indeed  made  a 
considerable  point  of  its  being  mailed.  Neverthe- 
less the  girl  had  forgotten  to  do  so  and  the  next 
day  was  too  frightened  to  do  it  fearing  the  thing 
might  have  some  connection  with  the  suicide.  She 
meant  to  give  it  to  Ted  in  person  but  finding  him 
out  decided  at  the  last  moment  to  deliver  it  to  me 
instead.  I  am  sending  the  letter  to  you,  as  I  re- 
ceived it,  unopened,  and  have  not  and  shall  not 
mention  the  incident  to  any  one  else.  I  should 
prefer  and  am  sure  that  you  will  also  wish  that 
your  nephew's  name  shall  not  be  associated  in  any 
way  with  the  dead  girl's.  Frankly  I  don't  believe 
the  thing  contains  any  dynamite  whatever  but  I 
would  rather  you  handled  the  thing  instead  of  my- 
self. 

"Believe  me,  my  dear  Holiday,  I  am  heartily 
sick  and  sorry  over  the  whole  matter  of  Ted's  ex- 
pulsion. If  we  had  not  had  his  own  word  for  it  I 
should  not  have  believed  him  guilty.  Even  now 
I  have  a  feeling  that  there  was  more  behind  the 
thing  than  we  got,  something  perhaps  more  to  his 
credit  than  he  was  willing  to  tell." 

Philip  Holiday  picked  up  the  enclosed  letter 
addressed  to  Ted  and  looked  at  it  as  dubiously  as 
if  indeed  it  might  have  contained  dynamite.  The 
scrawling  handwriting  was  painfully  familiar. 


322  WILD  WINGS 


And  the  mention  of  Florence  as  the  dead  girl's 
home  was  disagreeably  corroborating  evidence. 
What  indeed  was  behind  it  all? 

Steeling  his  will  he  tore  open  the  sealed  envelope. 
Save  for  a  folded  slip  of  paper  it  was  quite  empty. 
The  folded  slip  was  a  check  for  three  hundred 
dollars  made  payable  to  Madeline  Taylor  and 
signed  with  Ted  Holiday's  name. 

Here  was  dynamite  and  to  spare  for  Doctor 
Holiday.  Beside  the  uneasy  questions  this  devel- 
opment conjured  the  catastrophe  of  the  boy's  ex- 
pulsion took  second  place.  And  yet  he  forced  him- 
self not  to  judge  until  he  had  heard  Ted's  own 
story.  What  was  love  for  if  it  could  not  find  faith 
in  time  of  need? 

He  said  nothing  to  any  one,  even  his  wife,  of  the 
president's  letter  and  that  disconcerting  check 
which  evidently  represented  the  results  of  the  boy's 
law  breaking.  All  day  he  looked  for  a  letter  from 
Ted  himself  and  hoped  against  hope  that  he  would 
appear  in  person.  His  anxiety  grew  as  he  heard 
nothing.  What  had  become  of  the  boy?  Where 
had  he  betaken  himself  with  his  shame  and 
trouble?  How  grave  was  his  trouble?  It  was 
a  bad  day  for  Philip  Holiday  and  a  worse 
night. 

But  the  morning  brought  a  letter  from  his 
nephew,  mailed  ominously  enough  from  a  railway 
post  office  in  northern  Vermont.  The  doctor  tore  it 
open  with  hands  that  trembled  a  little.  One  thing 
at  least  he  was  certain  of.  However  bad  the  story 
the  lad  had  to  tell  it  would  be  the  truth.  He  could 
count  on  that. 

"Dear  Uncle  Phil—  ''  it  ran.  "By  the  time  you 
get  this  I  shall  be  over  the  border  and  enlisted,  I 
hope,  with  the  Canadians.  I  am  horribly  sorry  to 
knife  you  like  this  and  go  off  without  saying  good-by 
and  leaving  such  a  mess  behind  but  truly  it  is  the 


THE  FIERY  FURNACE  323 

best  thing  I  could  do  for  the  rest  of  you  as  well  as 
myself. 

"They  will  write  you  from  college  and  tell  you 
I  am  fired — for  gambling.  But  they  won't  tell  you 
the  whole  story  because  they  don't  know  it.  I 
couldn't  tell  them.  It  concerned  somebody  else  be- 
sides myself.  But  you  have  a  right  to  know  every- 
thing and  I  am  going  to  tell  it  to  you  and  there 
won't  be  anything  shaved  off  or  tacked  on  to  save 
my  face  either.  It  will  be  straight  stuff  on  my 
honor  as  a  Holiday  which  means  as  much  to  me  as 
it  does  to  you  and  Larry  whether  you  believe  it  or 
not." 

Then  followed  a  straightforward  account  of 
events  from  the  first  ill-judged  pick-up  on  the  train 
and  the  all  but  fatal  joy  ride  to  the  equally  ill- 
judged  kisses  in  Cousin  Emma's  garden. 

"I  hate  like  the  mischief  to  put  such  things  down 
on  paper,"  wrote  the  boy,  "but  I  said  I'd  tell  the 
whole  thing  and  I  will,  even  if  it  does  come  out 
hard,  so  you  will  know  it  isn't  any  worse  than  it 
is.  It  is  bad  enough  I'll  admit,  I  hadn't  any  bus- 
iness to  make  fool  love  to  her  when  I  really  didn't 
care  a  picayune.  And  I  hadn't  any  business  to  be 
there  in  Holyoke  at  all  when  you  thought  I  was  at 
Hal's.  I  did  go  to  Hal's  but  I  only  stayed  two 
days.  The  rest  of  the  time  I  was  with  Madeline 
and  knew  I  was  going  to  be  when  I  left  the  Hill. 
That  part  can't  look  any  worse  to  you  than  it  does 
to  me.  It  was  a  low-down  trick  to  play  on  you 
when  you  had  been  so  white  about  the  car  and 
everything.  But  I  did  it  and  I  can't  undo  it.  I 
can  only  say  I  am  sorry.  I  did  try  afterward  to 
make  up  a  little  bit  by  keeping  my  word  about  the 
studying.  Maybe  you'll  let  that  count  a  little  on 
the  other  side  of  the  ledger.  Lord  knows  I  need 
anything  I  can  get  there.  It  is  little  enough,  more 
shame  to  me!" 


324  WILD  WINGS 


Then  followed  the  events  of  the  immediately 
preceding  months  from  Madeline  Taylor's  arrival 
in  the  college  town  on  to  the  stunning  revelation 
of  old  Doctor  Hendricks'  letter. 

"You  don't  know  how  the  thing  made  me  feel. 
I  couldn't  help  feeling  more  or  less  responsible. 
For  after  all  I  did  start  the  thing  and  though 
Madeline  was  always  too  good  a  sport  to  blame 
me  I  knew  and  I  am  sure  she  knew  that  she 
wouldn't  have  taken  up  with  Hubbard  if  I  hadn't 
left  her  in  the  lurch  just  when  she  had  gotten  to 
care  a  whole  lot  too  much  for  me.  Besides  I 
couldn't  help  thinking  what  it  would  have  been 
like  if  Tony  had  been  caught  in  a  trap  like  that. 
It  didn't  seem  to  me  I  could  stand  off  and  let  her 
go  to  smash  alone  though  I  could  see  Doc  Hendricks 
had  common  sense  on  his  side  when  he  ordered  me 
to  keep  out  of  the  whole  business. 

"I  had  all  this  on  my  mind  when  I  came  home 
that  last  time  when  Granny  was  dying.  I  had  it 
lodged  in  my  head  that  it  was  up  to  me  to 
straighten  things  out  by  marrying  Madeline  myself 
though  I  hated  the  idea  like  death  and  destruction 
and  I  knew  it  would  about  kill  the  rest  of  you. 
I  wrote  and  asked  her  to  marry  me  that  night  after 
Granny  went.  She  wouldn't  do  it.  It  wasn't 
because  she  didn't  love  me  either.  I  guess  it  was 
rather  because  she  did  that  she  wouldn't.  She 
wouldn't  pull  me  down  in  the  quick  sands  with  her. 
Whatever  you  may  think  of  what  she  was  and  did 
you  will  have  to  admit  that  she  was  magnificent 
about  this.  She  might  have  saved  herself  at  my 
expense  and  she  wouldn't.  Remember  that,  Uncle 
Phil,  and  don't  judge  her  about  the  rest." 

Doctor  Holiday  ceased  reading  a  moment  and 
gazed  into  the  fire.  By  the  measure  of  his  full 
realization  of  what  such  a  marriage  would  have 
meant  to  his  young  nephew  he  paid  homage  to  the 


THE  FIERY  FURNACE  325 

girl  in  her  fine  courage  in  refusing  to  take  advan- 
tage of  a  chivalrous  boy's  impulsive  generosity 
even  though  it  left  her  the  terrible  alternative  which 
later  she  had  taken.  And  he  thought  with  a  tender 
little  smile  that  there  was  something  also  rather 
magnificent  about  a  lad  who  would  offer  himself 
thus  voluntarily  and  knowingly  a  living  sacrifice 
for  "dear  Honor's  sake."  He  went  back  to  the 
letter. 

"But  I  still  felt  I  had  to  do  something  to  help 
though  she  wouldn't  accept  the  way  I  first  offered. 
I  knew  she  needed  money  badly  as  she  wasn't  able 
to  work  and  I  wanted  to  give  her  some  of  mine. 
I  knew  I  had  plenty  or  would  have  next  spring 
whe(n  I  came  of  age.  But  I  was  sure  you  wouldn't 
let  me  have  any  of  it  now  without  knowing  why  and 
Larry  wouldn't  lend  me  any  either,  sight  unseen. 
I  wouldn't  have  blamed  either  of  you  for  refusing. 
I  haven't  deserved  to  be  taken  on  trust. 

"The  only  other  way  I  knew  of  to  get  money 
quick  was  to  play  for  it.  I  have  fool's  luck  always 
at  cards.  Last  year  I  played  a  lot  for  money. 
Larry  knew  and  rowed  me  like  the  devil  for  it  last 
spring.  No  wonder.  He  knew  how  Dad  hated  it. 
So  did  I.  I'd  heard  him  rave  on  the  subject  often 
enough.  But  I  did  it  just  the  same  as  I  did  a  good 
many  other  things  I  am  not  very  proud  to  remem- 
ber now.  But  I  haven't  done  it  this  year — at  least 
only  a  few  times.  Once  I  played  when  I'd  sent 
Madeline  all  the  money  I  had  for  her  traveling 
expenses  and  once  or  twice  beside  I  did  it  on  my 
own  account  because  I  was  so  darned  sick  of  toeing 
a  chalk  mark  I  had  to  go  on  a  tangent  or  bust.  I 
am  not  excusing  it.  I  am  not  excusing  anything. 
I  am  just  telling  the  truth. 

"Anyhow  the  other  night  I  played  again  in  good 
earnest.  There  were  quite  a  number  of  fellows  in 
the  game  and  we  all  got  a  bit  excited  and  plunged 


326  WILD  WINGS 


more  than  we  meant  to  especially  myself  and  Ned 
Delaney  who  was  out  to  get  me  if  he  could.  He 
hates  me  like  the  seven  year  itch  anyway  because 
I  caught  him  cheating  at  cards  once  and  said  so 
right  out  in  meeting.  I  had  absolutely  incred- 
ible luck.  I  guess  the  devil  or  the  angels  were  on 
my  side.  I  swept  everything,  made  about  three 
hundred  dollars  in  all.  The  fellows  paid  up  and  I 
banked  the  stuff  and  mailed  Madeline  a  check  for 
the  whole  amount  the  first  thing.  I  don't  know 
what  would  have  happened  if  I  had  lost  instead  of 
winning.  I  didn't  think  about  that.  A  true 
gambler  never  does  I  reckon. 

"But  I  want  to  say  right  here  and  now,  Uncle 
Phil,  that  I  am  through  with  the  business.  The 
other  night  sickened  me  of  gambling  for  good  and 
all.  Even  Dad  couldn't  have  hated  it  any  more 
than  I  do  this  minute.  It  is  rotten  for  a  man,  kills 
his  nerves  and  his  morals  and  his  common  sense. 
I'm  done.  I'll  never  make  another  penny  that  way 
as  long  as  I  live.  But  I'm  not  sorry  I  did  it  this 
once  no  matter  how  hard  I'm  paying  for  it.  If  I 
had  it  to  do  over  again  I'd  do  precisely  the  same 
thing.  I  wonder  if  you  can  understand  that,  Uncle 
Phil,  or  whether  you'll  think  I'm  just  plain  un- 
regenerate. 

"I  thought  then  I  was  finished  with  the  business 
but  as  a  matter  of  fact  I  was  just  starting  on  it. 
Somebody  turned  state's  evidence.  I  imagine  it 
was  Delaney  though  I  don't  know.  Anyhow  some- 
body wrote  the  president  an  anonymous  letter 
telling  him  there  was  a  lot  of  gambling  going  on 
and  I  was  one  of  the  worst  offenders,  and  thought- 
fully suggested  the  old  boy  should  ask  me  how 
much  I  made  the  other  night  and  what  I  did  with 
it.  Of  course  that  finished  me  off.  I  was  called 
before  the  board  and  put  through  a  holy  inquisition. 
Gee !  They  piled  up  not  only  the  gambling  business 


THE  FIERY  FURNACE  327 

but  all  the  other  things  I'd  done  and  left  undone 
for  two  years  and  a  half  and  dumped  the  whole 
avalanche  on  my  head  at  once.  Whew!  It  was 
fierce.  I  am  not  saying  I  didn't  deserve  it.  I  did, 
if  not  for  this  particular  thing  for  a  million  other 
times  when  I've  gone  scot-free. 

"They  tried  to  squeeze  out  of  me  who  the  other 
men  involved  were  but  I  wouldn't  tell.  I  could 
have  had  a  neat  little  come  back  on  Delaney  if  I 
had  chosen  but  I  don't  play  the  game  that  way  and 
I  reckon  he  knew  it  and  banked  on  my  holding  my 
tongue.  I'd  rather  stand  alone  and  take  what  was 
coming  to  me  and  I  got  it  too  good  and  plenty. 
They  tried  to  make  me  tell  what  I  did  with  the 
money.  That  riled  me.  It  was  none  of  their  bus- 
iness and  I  told  'em  so.  Anyway  I  couldn't  have 
told  even  if  it  would  have  done  me  any  good  on 
Madeline's  account.  I  wouldn't  drag  her  into  it. 

"Finally  they  dismissed  me  and  said  they  would 
let  me  know  later  what  they  would  do  about  my 
case.  But  there  wasn't  any  doubt  in  my  mind  what 
they  were  going  to  do  nor  in  theirs  either,  I'll  bet. 
I  was  damned.  They  had  to  fire  me — couldn't  help 
it  when  I  was  caught  with  the  goods  under  their 
very  noses.  I  think  a  good  many  of  them  wished 
I  hadn't  been  caught,  that  they  could  have  let  me 
off  some  way,  particularly  Prof.  Hathaway.  He 
put  out  his  hand  and  patted  my  shoulder  when  I 
went  out  and  I  knew  he  was  mighty  sorry.  He  has 
been  awfully  decent  to  me  always  especially  since 
I  have  been  playing  round  with  his  daughter  Elsie 
this  fall  and  I  guess  it  made  him  feel  bad  to  have 
me  turn  out  such  a  black  sheep.  I  wished  I  could 
tell  him  the  whole  story  but  I  couldn't.  I  just  had 
to  let  him  think  it  was  as  bad  as  it  looked. 

"I  had  hardly  gotten  back  into  the  Frat  house 
when  I  was  called  to  the  telephone.  It  was  Mad- 
eline. She  thanked  me  for  sending  her  the  money 


328  WILD  WINGS 


but  said  she  was  sending  the  check  back  as  she 
didn't  need  it,  had  found  a  way  out  of  her  dif- 
ficulties. She  was  going  on  a  long,  long  journey 
in  fact,  and  wouldn't  see  me  again.  Said  she 
wanted  to  say  good-by  and  wish  me  all  kinds  of 
luck  and  thank  me  for  what  she  was  pleased  to 
call  my  goodness  to  her.  And  then  she  hung  up 
before  I  could  ask  any  questions  or  get  it  through 
my  head  what  she  meant  by  her  long,  long  journey. 
My  brain  wasn't  working  very  lively  after  what 
I'd  been  through  over  there  at  the  bbard  meeting 
anyway  and  I  was  too  wrapped  up  in  my  own 
troubles  to  bother  much  about  hers  at  the  moment, 
selfish  brute  that  I  am. 

"But  the  next  morning  I  understood  all  right. 
She  had  found  her  way  out  and  no  mistake,  just 
turned  on  the  gas  and  let  herself  go.  She  was  dead 
when  they  found  her.  I  don't  blame  her,  Uncle 
Phil.  It  was  too  hard  for  her.  She  couldn't  go 
through  with  it.  Life  had  been  too  hard  for  her 
from  the  beginning.  She  never  had  half  a  chance. 
And  in  the  end  we  killed  her  between  us,  her  pious 
old  psalm  singing  hypocrite  of  a  grandfather,  the 
rotter  who  ruined  her,  and  myself,  the  prince  of 
fools. 

"I  went  to  see  her  with  the  old  Doc.  And,  Uncle 
Phil,  she  was  beautiful.  Not  even  Granny  looked 
more  peaceful  and  happy  than  she  did  lying  there 
dead  with  the  little  smile  on  her  lips  as  if  she  were 
having  a  pleasant  dream.  But  the  scar  was  there 
on  her  forehead — the  scar  I  put  there.  I've  got  a 
scar  of  my  own  too.  It  doesn't  show  on  the  surface 
but  it  is  there  for  all  that  and  always  will  be.  I 
shan't  talk  about  it  but  I'll  never  forget  as  long 
as  I  live  that  part  of  the  debt  she  paid  was  mine. 
It  is  mea  culpa  for  me  always  so  far  as  she  is 
concerned. 

"Her  grandfather  arrived  while  I  was  there.     If 


THE  FIERY  FURNACE  329 

ever  there  was  a  man  broken,  mind  and  body  and 
spirit  he  was.  I  couldn't  help  feeling  sorry  for 
him.  Of  the  two  I  would  much  rather  have  been 
Madeline  lying  there  dead  than  that  poor  old  chap 
living  with  her  death  on  his  conscience. 

"Later  I  got  my  official  notice  from  the  board.  I 
was  fired.  I  wanted  to  get  out  of  college.  I'm 
out  for  better  or  worse.  Uncle  Phil,  don't  think 
I  don't  care.  I  know  how  terribly  you  are  going 
to  be  hurt  and  that  it  will  be  just  about  the  finish 
of  poor  old  Larry.  I  am  not  very  proud  of  it  my- 
self— being  catapulted  out  in  disgrace  where  the 
rest  of  you  left  trailing  clouds  of  glory.  It  isn't 
only  what  I  have  done  just  now.  It  is  all  the  things 
I  have  done  and  haven't  done  before  that  has 
smashed  me  in  the  end — my  fool  attitude  of  have  a 
good  time  and  damn  the  expense.  I  didn't  pay  at 
the  time.  I  am  paying  now  compound  interest 
accumulated.  Worst  of  it  is  the  rest  of  you  will 
have  to  pay  with  me.  You  told  me  once  we  couldn't 
live  to  ourselves  alone.  I  didn't  understand  then. 
I  do  now.  I  am  guilty  but  you  have  to  suffer  with 
me  for  my  mistakes.  It  is  that  that  hurts  worst 
of  all. 

"You  have  been  wonderful  to  me  always,  had 
oceans  of  patience  when  I  disappointed  you  and 
hurt  you  and  worried  you  over  and  over  again. 
And  now  here  is  this  last,  worst  thing  of  all  to 
forgive.  Can  you  do  it,  Uncle  Phil?  Please  try. 
And  please  don't  worry  about  me,  nor  let  the  others. 
I'll  come  through  all  right.  And  if  I  don't  I  am 
not  afraid  of  death.  I  have  found  out  there  are 
lots  of  worse  things  in  the  world.  I  haven't  any 
pipe  dreams  about  coming  out  a  hero  of  any  sort 
but  I  do  mean  to  come  out  the  kind  of  a  man  you 
won't  be  ashamed  of  and  to  try  my  darnedest  to 
live  up  a  little  bit  to  the  Holiday  specifications. 
Again,  dear  Uncle  Phil,  please  forgive  me  if  you 


330  WILD  WINGS 


can  and  write  as  soon  as  I  can  send  an  address." 
Then  a  brief  postcript.  "The  check  Madeline 
sent  back  never  got  to  me.  If  it  is  forwarded  to 
the  Hill  please  send  it  or  rather  its  equivalent  to 
the  president.  I  wouldn't  touch  the  money  with  a 
ten  foot  pole.  I  never  wanted  it  for  myself  but 
only  for  Madeline  and  she  is  beyond  needing  any- 
thing any  of  us  can  give  her  now." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE  MOVING  FINGER  CONTINUES  TO  WRITE 

HAVING  read  and  reread  the  boy's  letter  Doctor 
Holiday  sat  long  with  it  in  his  hand  staring  into 
the  fire.  Poor  Teddy  for  whom  life  had  hitherto 
been  one  grand  and  glorious  festival !  He  was  get- 
ting the  other,  the  seamy  side  of  things,  at  last 
with  a  vengeance.  Knowing  with  the  sure  intui- 
tion of  love  how  deeply  the  boy  was  suffering  and 
how  sincerely  he  repented  his  blunders  the  doctor 
felt  far  more  compassion  than  condemnation  for 
his  nephew.  The  fineness  and  the  folly  of  the  thing 
were  so  inextricably  confused  that  there  was  little 
use  trying  to  separate  the  two  even  if  he  had  cared 
to  judge  the  lad  which  he  did  not,  being  content 
with  the  boy's  own  judgment  of  himself.  Bad  as  the 
gambling  business  was  and  deeply  as  he  regretted 
the  expulsion  from  college  the  doctor  could  not  help 
seeing  that  there  was  some  extenuation  for  Ted's 
conduct,  that  he  had  in  the  main  kept  faith  with 
himself,  paid  generously,  far  more  than  he  owed, 
and  traveling  through  the  fiery  furnace  had  some- 
how managed  to  come  out  unscathed,  his  soul  intact. 
After  all  could  one  ask  much  more? 

It  was  considerably  harder  for  Larry  to  accept 
the  situation  philosophically  than  it  was  for  the 
senior  doctor's  more  tolerant  and  mature  mind. 
Larry  loved  Ted  as  he  loved  no  one  else  in  the 
world  not  perhaps  even  excepting  Ruth.  But  he 
loved  the  Holiday  name  too  with  a  fine,  high  pride 

331 


332  WILD  WINGS 


and  it  was  a  bitter  dose  to  swallow  to  have  his 
younger  brother  "catapulted  in  disgrace,"  as  Ted 
himself  put  it,  out  of  the  college  which  he  himself 
so  loved  and  honored.  He  was  inclined  to  resent 
what  looked  in  retrospect  as  entirely  unnecessary 
and  uncalled  for  generosity  on  Ted's  part. 

"Nobody  but  Ted  would  ever  have  thought  of 
doing  such  a  fool  thing,"  he  groaned.  "Why  didn't 
he  pull  out  in  the  first  place  as  Hendricks  wanted 
him  to?  He  would  have  been  entirely  justified." 

But  the  older  man  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"Some  people  could  have  done  it,  not  Ted,"  he 
said.  "Ted  isn't  built  that  way.  He  never  deserted 
anybody  in  trouble  in  his  life.  I  don't  believe  he 
ever  will.  We  can't  expect  him  to  have  behaved 
differently  in  this  one  affair  just  because  we  would 
have  liked  it  better  so.  I  am  not  sure  but  we 
would  be  wrong  and  he  right  in  any  case." 

"Maybe.  But  it  is  a  horrible  mess.  I  can't  get 
over  the  injustice  of  the  poor  kid's  paying  so  hard 
when  he  was  just  trying  to  do  the  decent,  hard, 
right  thing." 

"  You  have  it  less  straight  than  Ted  has,  Larry. 
He  knows  he  is  paying  not  for  what  he  did  and 
thought  right  but  for  what  he  did  and  knew  was 
wrong.  You  can't  feel  worse  than  I  do  about  it. 
I  would  give  anything  I  have  to  save  Ted  from  the 
torture  he  is  going  through,  has  been  going  through 
alone  for  days.  But  I  would  rather  he  learned  his 
lesson  thoroughly  now,  suffering  more  than  he 
deserves  than  have  him  suffer  too  little  and  fall 
worse  next  time.  No  matter  how  badly  we  feel 
for  him  I  think  it  is  up  to  us  not  to  try  to  dilute 
his  penitence  and  to  leave  a  generous  share  of  the 
blame  where  he  puts  it  himself — on  his  own 
shoulders." 

"I  suppose  you  are  right,  Uncle  Phil,"  sighed 
Larry.  "You  usually  are.  But  it's  like  having  a 


MOVING  FINGER  CONTINUES  TO  WRITE       333 

piece  taken  right  out  of  me  to  have  him  go  off  like 
that.  And  the  Canadians  are  the  very  devil  of 
fighters.  Always  in  the  thick  of  things." 

"That  is  where  Ted  would  want  to  be,  Larry. 
Let  us  not  cross  that  bridge  until  we  have  to.  As 
he  says  himself  there  are  worse  things  than  death 
anyway." 

"I  know.  Marrying  the  girl  would  have  been 
worse.  She  was  rather  magnificent,  wasn't  she, 
just  as  he  says,  not  saving  herself  when  she  might 
have  at  his  expense?" 

"I  think  she  was.  I  am  almost  glad  the  poor 
child  is  where  she  can  suffer  no  more  at  the  hands 
of  men." 

The  next  day  came  a  wire  from  Ted  announcing 
his  acceptance  in  the  Canadian  army  and  giving  his 
address  in  the  training  camp'. 

The  doctor  answered  at  once,  writing  a  long, 
cheerful  letter  full  of  home  news  especially  the  in- 
teresting developments  in  Ruth's  romantic  story. 
It  was  only  at  the  end  that  he  referred  to  the  big 
thing  that  had  to  be  faced  between  them. 

"I  am  not  going  to  say  a  word  that  will  add  in 
any  way  to  the  burden  you  are  already  carrying, 
Teddy,  my  lad.  You  know  how  sadly  disappointed 
we  all  are  in  your  having  to  leave  college  this  way 
but  I  understand  and  sympathize  fully  with  your 
reasons  for  doing  what  you  did.  Even  though  I 
can't  approve  of  the  thing  itself.  I  haven't  a  single 
reproach  to  offer.  You  have  had  a  harsh  lesson. 
Learn  it  so  well  that  you  will  never  bring  yourself 
or  the  rest  of  us  to  such  pain  and  shame  again. 
Keep  your  scar.  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  you 
were  so  callous  that  you  could  pass  through  an 
experience  like  that  without  carrying  off  an  in- 
delible mark  from  it.  But  it  isn't  going  to  ruin 
your  life.  On  the  contrary  it  is  going  to  make  a 
man  of  you,  is  doing  that  already  if  I  may  judge 


334  WILD  WINGS 


from  the  spirit  of  your  letter  which  goes  far  to 
atone  for  the  rest.  The  forgiveness  is  yours  always, 
son,  seventy  times  seven  if  need  be.  Never  doubt 
it.  We  shall  miss  you  very  much.  I  wonder  if 
you  know  how  dear  to  us  you  are,  Teddy  lad.  But 
we  aren't  going  to  borrow  trouble  of  the  future. 
We  shall  say  instead  God  speed.  May  he  watch 
over  you  wherever  you  are  and  bring  you  safe  back 
to  us  in  His  good  time!" 

And  Ted  reading  the  letter  later  in  the  Canadian 
training  camp  was  not  ashamed  of  the  tears  that 
came  stinging  up  in  his  eyes.  He  was  woefully 
homesick,  wanted  the  home  people,  especially  Uncle 
Phil  desperately.  But  the  message  from  the  Hill 
brought  strength  and  comfort  as  well  as  heart  ache. 

"Dear  Uncle  Phil,"  he  thought.  "I  will  make  it 
up  to  him  somehow.  I  will.  He  shan't  ever  have 
to  be  ashamed  of  me  again." 

And  so  Ted  Holiday  girded  on  manhood  along 
with  his  khaki  and  his  Sam  Browne  belt  and  started 
bravely  up  out  of  the  pit  which  his  own  willful 
folly  had  dug  for  him. 

Tony  was  not  told  the  full  story  of  her  brother's 
fiasco.  She  only  knew  that  he  had  left  college  for 
some  reason  or  other  and  had  taken  French  leave 
for  the  Canadian  training  camp.  She  was  relieved 
to  discover  that  even  in  Larry's  stern  eyes  the 
escapade,  whatever  it  was,  had  not  apparently  been 
a  very  damaging  one  and  accepted  thankfully  her 
uncle's  assurance  that  there  was  nothing  at  all  to 
worry  about  and  that  Ted  was  no  doubt  very  much 
better  off  where  he  was  than  if  he  had  stayed  in 
college. 

As  for  the  going  to  war  part  small  blame  had 
she  for  Ted  in  that.  She  knew  well  it  was  precisely 
what  she  would  have  done  herself  in  his  case  and 
teemed  with  pride  in  her  bonny,  reckless,  beloved 
soldier  brother. 


MOVING  FINGER  CONTINUES  TO  WRITE       335 

She  had  small  time  to  think  much  about  any- 
body's affairs  beside  her  own  just  now.  Any  day 
now  might  come  the  word  that  little  Cecilia  had 
gone  and  that  Tony  Holiday  would  take  her  place 
on  the  Broadway  stage  as  a  re'al  star  if  only  for 
a  brief  space  of  twinkling. 

She  saw  very  little  even  of  Alan.  He  was 
tremendously  busy  and  seemed,  oddly  enough,  to  be 
drawing  a  little  away  from  her,  to  be  less  jealously 
exacting  of  her  time  and  attention.  It  was  not 
that  he  cared  le'ss,  rather  more,  Tony  thought.  His 
strange,  tragic  eyes  rested  hungrily  upon  her  when- 
ever they  were  together  and  it  seemed  as  if  he  would 
drink  deep  of  her  youth  and  loveliness  and  joy,  a 
draught  deep  enough  to  last  a  long,  long  time, 
through  days  of  parching  thirst  to  follow.  He  was 
very  gentle,  very  quiet,  very  loveable,  very  tender. 
His  stormy  mood  seemed  to  have  passed  over  leav- 
ing a  great  weariness  in*  its  wake. 

A  very  passion  of  creation  was  upon  him.  See- 
ing the  canvases  that  flowered  into  beauty  beneath 
his  hand  Tony  felt  very  small  and  humble, 
knew  that  by  comparison  with  her  lover's  genius 
her  own  facile  gifts  were  but  as  a  firefly's  glow  to 
the  light  of  a  flaming  torch.  He  was  of  the  masters. 
She  saw  that  and  was  proud  and  glad  and  awed  by 
the  fact.  But  she  saw  also  that  the  artist  was 
consuming  himself  by  the  very  fire  of  his  own  genius 
and  the  knowledge  troubled  her  though  she  saw 
no  way  to  check  or  prevent  the  holocaust  if  such 
it  was. 

Sometimes  she  was  afraid.  She  knew  that  she 
would  never  be  happy  in  the  every  day  way  with 
Alan.  Happiness  did  not  grow  in  his  sunless 
garden.  Married  to  him  she  would  enter  dark 
forests  which  were  not  her  natural  environment. 
But  it  did  not  matter.  She  loved  him.  She  came 
always  back  to  that.  She  was  his,  would  always 


336  WILD  WINGS 


be  his  no  matter  what  happened.     She  was  bound 
by  the  past,  caught  in  its  meshes  forever. 

And  then  suddenly  a  new  turn  of  the  wheel  took 
place.  Word  came  just  before  Christmas  that  Dick 
Carson  was  very  ilj,  dying  perhaps  down  in  Mexico, 
stricken  with  a  malarial  fever. 

A  few  moments  after  Tony  received  this  stunning 
news  Alan  Massey's  card  was  brought  to  her.  She 
went  down  to  the  reception  room,  gave  him  a  limp 
cold  little  hand  in  greeting  and  asked  if  he  minded 
going  out  with  her.  She  had  to  talk  with  him. 
She  couldn't  talk  here. 

Alan  did  not  mind.  A  little  later  they  were 
walking  riverward  toward  a  brilliant  orange  sky, 
against  which  the  Soldiers'  and  Sailors'  Monument 
loomed  gray  and  majestic.  It  was  bitter  cold.  A 
stinging  wind  lashed  the  girl's  skirts  around  her 
and  bit  into  her  cheeks.  But  somehow  she  wel- 
comed the  physical  discomfort.  It  matched  her 
mood. 

Then  the  story  came  out.  Dick  was  sick,  very 
sick,  going  to  die  maybe  and  she,  Tony  Holiday 
couldn't  stand  it. 

Alan  listened  in  tense  silence.  So  Dick  Carson 
might  be  going  to  be  so  unexpectedly  obliging  as  to 
die  after  all.  If  he  had  known  how  to  pray  he 
would  have  done  it,  beseeched  whatever  gods  there 
were  to  let  the  thing  come  to  an  end  at  last,  offered 
any  bribe  within  his  power  if  they  would  set  him 
free  from  his  bondage  by  disposing  of  his  cousin. 

But  there  beside  him  clinging  to  his  arm  was 
Tony  Holiday  aquiver  with  grief  for  this  same 
cousin.  He  saw  that  there  were  tears  on  her 
cheeks,  tears  that  the  icy  wind  turned  instantly  to 
frosted  silver.  And  suddenly  a  new  power  was 
invoked — the  power  of  love. 

"Tony,  darling,  don't  cry,"  he  beseeched.  "I — 
can't  stand  it.  He — he  won't  die." 


MOVING  FINGER  CONTINUES  TO  WRITE       337 

And  then  and  there  a  miracle  took  place.  Alan 
Massey  who  had  never  prayed  in  his  life  was  pray- 
ing to  some  God,  somewhere  to  save  John  Massey 
for  Tony  because  she  loved  him  and  his  dying  would 
hurt  her.  Tony  must  not  be  hurt.  Any  God  could 
see  that.  It  must  not  be  permitted. 

Tony  put  up  her  hand  and  brushed  away  the 
frosted  silver  drops. 

"No,  he  isn't  going  to  die.  I'm  not  going  to  let 
him.  I'm  going  to  Mexico  to  save  him." 

Alan  stopped  short,  pulling  her  to  a  halt  beside 
him. 

"Tony,  you  can't,"  he  gasped,  too  astonished  for 
a  moment  even  to  be  angry. 

"I  can  and  I  am  goingf  to,"  she  defied  him. 

"But  my  dear,  I  tell  you,  you  can't.  It  would 
be  madness.  Your  uncle  wouldn't  let  you.  I  won't 
let  you." 

"You  can't  stop  me.  Nobody  can  stop  me.  I'm 
going.  Dick  shan't  die  alone.  He  shan't." 

"Tony,  do  you  love  him?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  love 
— your  kind.  I  do  love  him  one  way  with  all  my 
heart.  I  wish  it  were  the  way  I  love  you.  I'd  go 
down  and  marry  him  if  I  did.  Maybe  I'll  marry 
him  anyway.  I  would  in  a  minute  if  it  would 
save  him." 

"Tony!"  Alan's  face  was  dead  white,  his  green 
eyes  savage.  "You  promised  to  stick  to  me  through 
everything.  Where  is  your  Holiday  honor  that  you 
can  talk  like  that  about  marrying  another  man?" 
Maddened,  he  branished  his  words  like  whips, 
caring  little  whether  they  hurt  or  not. 

"I  can't  help  it,  Alan.  I  am  sorry  if  I  am  hurt- 
ing you.  But  I  can't  think  about  anybody  but 
Dick  just  now." 

"Forgive  me,  sweetheart.  I  know  you  didn't 
mean  it,  what  you  said  about  marrying  him  and 


338  WILD  WINGS 


you  didn't  mean  it  about  going  to  Mexico.  You 
know  you  can't.  It  is  no  place  for  a  woman  like 
you." 

"If  Dick  is  there  dying,  it  is  the  place  for  me. 
I  love  you,  Alan.  But  there  are  some  things  that 
go  even  deeper,  things  that  have  their  very  roots 
in  me,  the  things  that  belong  to  the  Hill.  And 
Dick  is  a  very  big  part  of  them,  sometimes  I  think 
he  is  the  biggest  part  of  all.  I  have  to  go  to  him. 
Please  don't  try  to  stop  me.  It  will  only  make  us 
both  unhappy  if  you  try." 

A  bitter  blast  struck  their  faces  with  the  force  of 
a  blow.  Tony  shivered. 

"Let's  go  back.  I'm  cold — so  dreadfully  cold," 
she  moaned  clinging  to  his  arm. 

They  turned  in  silence.  There  was  nothing  to 
say.  The  sunset  glory  had  faded  now.  Only  a 
pale,  cold  mauve  tint  was  left  where  the  flame  had 
blazed.  A  star  or  two  had  come  out.  The  river 
flowed  sinister  black,  showing  white  humps  of  foam 
here  and  there. 

At  the  Hostelry  Jean  Lambert  met  them  in  the 
hall. 

"Tony,  where  have  you  been?  We  have  been 
trying  everywhere  to  locate  you.  Cecilia  died  this 
afternoon.  You  have  to  take  Miss  Clay's  place  to- 
night." 

Tony's  face  went  white.  She  leaned  against  the 
wall  trembling. 

"I  forgot — I  forgot  about  the  play.  I  can't  go 
to  Mexico.  Oh,  what  shall  I  do?  What  shall  I 
do?" 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

DWELLERS    IN    DREAMS 

THE  last  curtain  had  gone  down  on  the  "End  of 
the  Rainbow"  and  Tony  Holiday  had  made  an  un- 
deniable hit,  caught  the  popular  fancy  by  her  young 
charm  and  vivid  personality  and  fresh  talents  to 
such  a  degree  that  for  the  moment  at  least  even  its 
idol  of  many  seasons,  Carol  Clay,  was  forgotten. 
The  new  arriving  star  filled  the  whole  firmament. 
Broadway  was  ready  to  worship  at  a  new  shrine. 

But  Broadway  did  not  know  that  there  were  two 
Tony  Holidays  that  night,  the  happy  Tony  who 
had  taken  its  fickle,  composite  heart  by  storm  and 
the  other  Tony  half  distracted  by  grief  and  trapped 
bewilderment.  Tony  had  willed  to  exile  that 
second  self  before  she  stepped  out  behind  the  foot 
lights.  She  knew  if  she  did  not  she  never  could 
play  Madge  as  Madge  had  the  right  to  be  played. 
For  her  own  sake,  for  Max  Hempel's  sake  because 
he  believed  in  her,  for  Carol  Clay's  sake  because 
Tony  loved  her,  she  meant  to  forget  everything  but 
Madge  for  those  few  hours.  Later  she  would 
remember  that  Dick  was  dying  in  Mexico,  that  she 
had  hurt  Alan  cruelly  that  afternoon,  that  she  had 
a  sad  and  vexed  problem  to  solve  to  which  there 
seemed  no  solution.  These  things  must  wait.  And 
they  had  waited  but  they  came  crowding  back  upon 
her  the  moment  the  play  was  over  and  she  saw 
Alan  waiting  for  her  in  the  little  room  off  the 
wings. 

339 


340  WILD  WINGS 


He  rose  to  meet  her  and  oblivious  of  curious  eyes 
about  them  drew  her  into  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 
And  Tony  utterly  miserable  in  a  daze  of  conflicting 
emotions  nestled  in  his  embrace  unresisting  for  a 
second,  not  caring  any  more  than  Alan  himself 
what  any  one  saw  or  thought  upon  seeing. 

"You  were  wonderful,  belovedest,"  he  whispered. 
"I  never  saw  them  go  madder  over  anybody,  not 
even  Carol  herself." 

Tony  glowed  all  over  at  his  praise  and  begged 
that  they  might  drive  a  little  in  the  park  before 
they  went  home.  She  had  to  think.  She  couldn't 
think  in  the  Hostelry.  It  stifled  her.  Nothing 
loath  Alan  acquiesced,  hailed  a  cajb  and  gave  the 
necessary  orders.  For  a  moment  they  rode  in 
silence  Tony  relaxing  for  the  first  time  in  many 
hours  in  the  comfort  of  her  lover's  presence,  his 
arm  around  her.  Things  were  hard,  terribly  hard 
but  you  could  not  feel  utterly  disconsolate  when 
the  man  you  loved  best  in  all  the  world  was  there 
right  beside  you  looking  at  you  with  eyes  that  told 
you  how  much  you  were  beloved  in  return. 

"Tony,  dear,  I  am  going  to  surprise  you,"  he  said 
suddenly  breaking  the  silence.  "I  have  decided  to 
go  to  Mexico." 

"To  go  to  Mexico!     Alan!     Why?" 

Tony  drew  away  from  her  companion  to  study 
his  face,  with  amazement  on  her  own. 

"To  find  Carson  and  look  after  him.     Why  else?" 

"But  your  exhibition?  You  can't  go  away  now, 
Alan,  even  if  I  would  let  you  go  to  Dick  that  way." 

"Oh,  yes  I  can.  The  arrangements  are  all  made. 
Van  Slyke  can  handle  the  last  stages  of  the  thing 
far  better  than  I  can.  I  loathe  hanging  round  and 
hearing  the  fools  rant  about  my  stuff  and  wonder 
what  the  devil  I  meant  by  this  or  that  or  if  I  didn't 
mean  anything.  I  am  infinitely  better  off  three 
thousand  miles  away." 


DWELLERS  IN  DREAMS  341 

"But  even  so — I  don't  want  to  hurt  you  or  act 
as  if  I  didn't  appreciate  what  you  are  offering  to 
do — but  you  hate  Dick.  I  don't  see  how  you  could 
help  him." 

"I  don't  hate  him  any  more,  Tony.  At  least  I 
don't  think  I  do.  At  any  rate  whether  I  do  or  don't 
won't  make  the  slightest  bit  of  difference.  I 
shall  look  after  him  as  well  as  your  uncle  or  your 
brothers  would — better  perhaps  because  I  know 
Mexico  well  and  how  to  get  things  done  down 
there.  I  know  how  to  get  things  done  in  most 
places." 

"Oh,  I  know.  I  have  often  thought  you  must 
have  magic  at  your  command  the  way  people  fly  to 
do  your  bidding.  It  is  startling  but  it  is  awfully 
convenient." 

"Money  magic  mostly,"  he  retorted  grimly. 
"Partly,  not  mostly.  You  are  a  born  potentate. 
You  must  have  been  a  sultan  or  a  pashaw  or  some- 
thing in  some  previous  incarnation.  I  don't  care 
what  you  are  if  you  will  find  Dick  and  see  that  he 
gets  well.  Alan,  don't  you  think — couldn't  I — 
wouldn't  it  be  better — if  I  went  too?" 

There  was  a  sudden  gleam  in  Alan's  eyes.  The 
hour  was  his.  He  could  take  advantage  of  the 
situation,  of  the  girl's  anxiety  for  his  cousin,  her 
love  for  himself  while  it  was  at  high  tide  as  it  was 
at  this  over  stimulated  hour  of  excitement.  He 
could  marry  her.  And  once  the  rite  was  spoken — 
not  John  Massey — not  all  Holiday  Hill  combined 
could  take  her  from  him.  She  would  be  his  and 
his  alone  to  the  end.  Tony  was  ripe  for  madness 
to-night,  overwrought,  ready  to  take  any  wild  leap 
in  the  dark  with  him.  He  could  make  her  his.  He 
felt  the  intoxicating  truth  quiver  in  the  touch  of 
her  hand,  read  it  in  her  eager,  dark  eyes  lifted  to 
his  for  his  answer. 
Alan  Massey  was  unused  to  putting  away  tempta- 


342  WILD  WINGS 


tion  but  this,  perhaps  the  biggest  and  blackest  that 
had  ever  assailed  him  he  put  by. 

"No,  dear  I'll  go  alone,"  he  said.  "You  will  just 
have  to  trust  me,  Tony.  I  swear  I'll  do  everything 
in  the  world  that  can  be  done  for  Carson.  Let  us 
have  just  one  dance  though.  I  should  like  it  to 
remember — in  Mexico." 

Tony  hesitated.  It  was  very  late.  Thre  Hostelry 
would  ill  approve  of  her  going  anywhere  to  dance 
at  such  an  hour.  It  ill  approved  of  Alan  Massey 
any  way.  Still — 

"I  am  going  to-morrow.  It  is  our  last  chance," 
he  pleaded.  "Just  one  dance,  carissima.  It  may 
have  to  last — a  long,  long  time." 

And  Tony  yielded.  After  all  they  could  not  treat 
this  night  as  if  it  were  like  all  the  other  nights  in 
the  calendar.  They  had  the  right  to  their  one  more 
hour  of  happiness  before  Alan  went  away.  They 
had  the  right  to  this  one  last  dance. 

The  one  dance  turned  into  many  before  they 
were  through.  It  seemed  to  both  as  if  they  dared 
not  stop  lest  somehow  love  and  happiness  should 
stop  too  with  the  end  of  the  music.  They  danced 
on  and  on  "divinely"  as  Alan  had  once  called  it. 
Tony  thought  the  rest  of  his  prophecy  was  fulfilled- 
at  last,  that  they  also  loved  each  other  divinely, 
as  no  man  or  woman  had  ever  loved  since  time 
began. 

But  at  last  this  too  had  to  come  to  an  end  as 
perfect  moments  must  in  this  finite  world  and  Alan 
and  Tony  went  out  of  the  brilliantly  lighted  res- 
taurant into  white  whirls  of  snow.  For  a  storm 
had  started  while  they  had  been  inside  and  was 
now  well  in  progress.  All  too  soon  the  cab  depos- 
ited them  at  the  Hostelry.  In  the  dimly  lit  hall 
Alan  drew  the  girl  into  his  arms  and  kissed  her 
passionately  then  suddenly  almost  flung  her  from 
him,  muttered  a  curt  good-by  and  before  Tony 


DWELLERS  IN  DREAMS  343 

hardly  realized  he  was  going,  was  gone,  swallowed 
up  in  the  night  and  storm.  Alone  Tony  put  her 
hands  over  her  hot  cheeks.  So  this  was  love.  It 
was  terrible,  but  oh — it  was  wonderful  too. 

Soberly  after  a  moment  she  went  to  change  the 
damning  OUT  opposite  her  name  in  the  hall  bulletin 
just  as  the  clock  struck  the  shocking  hour  of  three. 
But  lo  there  was  no  damning  OUT  visible,  only  a 
meek  and  proper  IN  after  her  name.  For  all  the 
bulletin  proclaimed  Antoinette  Holiday  might  have 
been  for  hours  wrapt  in  innocent  slumber  instead 
of  speeding  away  the  wee'  sma'  hours  in  a  public 
restaurant  in  the  arms  of  a  lover  at  whom  Madame 
Grundy  and  her  allies  looked  awry.  Somebody  had 
tampered  with  the  thing  to  save  Tony  a  reprimand 
or  worse.  But  who?  Jean?  No,  certainly  not 
Jean.  Jean's  conscience  was  as  inelastic  as  a  yard 
stick.  Whoever  had  committed  the  charitable  act 
of  mendacity  it  couldn't  have  been  Jean. 

But  when  Tony  opened  her  own  door  and  switched 
on  the  light  there  was  Jean  curled  up  asleep  in  the 
big  arm  chair.  The  sudden  flare  of  light  roused 
the  sleeper  and  she  sat  up  blinking. 

"Wherever  have  you  been,  Tony?  I  have  been 
worried  to  death  about  you.  I've  been  home  from 
the  theater*  for  hours.  I  couldn't  think  what  had 
happened  to  you." 

"I  am  sorry  you  worried.  You  needn't  have. 
I  was  with  Alan,  of  course." 

"Tony,  people  say  dreadful  things  about  Mr. 
Massey.  Aren't  you  ever  afraid  of  him  yourself?" 
Jean  surveyed  the  younger  girl  with  troubled  eyes. 

Tony  flung  off  her  cloak  impatiently. 

"Of  course  I  am  not  afraid.  People  don't  know 
him  when  they  say  such  things  about  him.  You 
needn't  ever  worry,  Jean.  I  am  safer  with  Alan 
than  with  any  one  else  in  the  world.  I'd  know  that 
to-night  if  I  never  knew  it  before.  We  were  danc- 


344  WILD  WINGS 


ing.  I  knew  it  was  late  but  I  didn't  care.  I 
wouldn't  have  missed  those  dances  if  they  had  told 
me  I  had  to  pack  my  trunk  and  leave  to-morrow." 
Thus  spoke  the  rebel  always  ready  to  fly  out  like 
a  Jack-in-the  box  from  under  the  lid  in  Tony 
Holiday. 

"They  won't,"  said  Jean  in  a  queer,  compressed 
little  voice. 

"Jean!    Was  it  you  that  fixed  that  bulletin?" 

"Yes,  it  was.  I  know  it  wasn't  a  nice  thing  to  do 
but  I  didn't  want  them  to  scold  you  just  now  when 
you  were  so  worried  about  Dick  and  everything. 
I  thought  you  would  be  in  most  any  minute  any 
way  and  I  waited  up  myself  to  tell  you  how  I  loved 
the  play  and  how  proud  I  was  of  you.  Then  when 
you  didn't  come  for  so  long  I  got  really  scared 
and  then  I  fell  asleep  and — " 

Tony  came  over  and  stopped  the  older  girl's 
words  with  a  kiss. 

"You  are  a  sweet  peach,  Jean  Lambert,  and  I 
am  awfully  grateful  to  you  for  straining  your 
conscience  like  that  for  my  sake  and  awfully  sorry 
I  worried  you.  I  am  afraid  I  always  do  worry 
good,  sensible,  proper  people.  I'm  made  that  way, 
mad  north  north  west  like  Hamlet,"  she  added 
whimsically.  "Maybe  we  Holidays  are  all  mad  that 
much,  excepting  Uncle  Phil  of  course.  He's  all 
that  keeps  the  rest  of  us  on  the  track  of  sanity  at 
all.  But  Alan  is  madder  still.  Jean,  he  is  going 
to  Mexico  to  take  care  of  Dick." 

"Mr.  Massey  is  going  to  Mexico  to  take  care  of 
Dick !"  Jean  stared.  "Why,  Tony— I  thought- 

"Naturally.  So  did  I.  Who  wouldn't  think  him 
the  last  person  in  the  world  to  do  a  thing  like  that? 
But  he  is  going  and  it  is  his  idea  not  mine. 
I  wanted  to  go  too  but  he  wouldn't  let  me,"  she 
added. 

Jean  gasped. 


DWELLERS  IN  DREAMS  345 

"Tony !  You  would  have  married  him  when  your 
uncle — when  everybody  doesn't  want  you  to?" 

To  Jean  Lambert's  well  ordered,  carefully  fenced 
in  mind  such  wild  mental  leaps  as  Tony  Holiday's 
were  almost  too  much  to  contemplate.  But  worse 
was  to  come. 

"Married  him !  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  didn't  think 
about  that.  I  would  just  have  gone  with  him. 
There  wouldn't  have  been  time  to  get  a  license. 
Of  course  I  couldn't  though  on  account  of  the 
play." 

Jean  gasped  again.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  the 
play  this  astounding  young  person  before  her  would 
have  gone  gallivanting  off  with  one  man  to  whom 
she  was  not  married  to  the  bedside,  thousands  of 
miles  away,  of  another  man  to  whom  she  was  also 
not  married.  Such  simplicity  of  mental  processes 
surpassed  any  complexity  Jean  Lambert  could 
possibly  conceive. 

"Alan  wouldn't  let  me,"  repeated  the  astounding 
Tony.  "I  suppose  it  is  better  so.  By  to-morrow 
I  will  probably  agree  with  him.  When  the  wind  is 
southerly  I  know  a  hawk  from  a  handsaw  too. 
But  the  wind  isn't  southerly  to-night.  It  wasn't 
when  I  was  dancing  nor  afterward,"  she  added 
with  a  flaming  color  in  her  cheeks  remembering 
that  moment  in  the  Hostelry  hall  when  wisdom  had 
mattered  very  little  to  her  in  comparison  with  love. 
"Oh,  Jean,  what  if  something  dreadful  should 
happen  to  him  down  there!  I  can't  let  him  go. 
I  can't.  But  Dick  mustn't  die  alone  either.  Oh, 
what  shall  I  do?  What  shall  I  do?" 

And  suddenly  Tony  threw  herself  face  down  on 
the  bed  sobbing  great,  heart  rending  sobs,  but 
whether  she  was  crying  for  Dick  or  Alan  or  her- 
self or  all  three  Jean  was  unable  to  decipher. 
Perhaps  Tony  did  not  know  herself. 

The  next  morning  when  Tony  awoke  Alan  had 


346  WILD  WINGS 


already  left  for  his  long  journey,  but  a  great  box 
full  of  roses  told  her  she  had  been  his  last  thought. 
One  by  one  she  lifted  them  out  of  the  box — great, 
gorgeous,  blood  red  beauties,  royal,  Tony  thought, 
like  the  royal  lover  who  had  sent  them.  The  only 
message  with  the  flowers  was  a  bit  of  verse,  a  poem 
of  Tagore's  whom  Alan  loved  and  had  taught  Tony 
to  love  too. 

You  are  the  evening  cloud  floating  in  the  sky  of 

my  dreams. 

I  paint  you  and  fashion  you  with  my  love  longings. 
You  are  my  own,  my  own,  Dweller  in  my  endless 

dreams ! 

Your  feet  are  rosy-red  with  the  glow  of  my  heart's 

desire,  Gleaner  of  my  sunset  songs ! 
Your  lips  are  bitter-sweet  with  the  taste  of  my  wine 

of  pain. 
You  are  my  own,  my  own,  Dweller  in  my  lonesome 

dreams ! 

With  the  shadow  of  my  passion  have  I  darkened 
your  eyes,  Haunter  of  the  depth  of  my  gaze ! 

I  have  caught  you  and  wrapt  you,  my  love,  in  the 
net  of  my  music. 

You  are  my  own,  my  own,  Dweller  in  my  deathless 
dreams ! 

As  she  read  the  exquisite  lines  Antoinette  Holiday 
knew  it  was  all  true.  The  poet  might  have  written 
his  poem  for  her  and  Alan.  Her  lips  were  indeed 
bitter-sweet  with  the  taste  of  his  wine  of  pain,  her 
eyes  were  darkened  by  his  shadows.  He  had  caught 
her  and  wrapt  her  in  the  net  of  his  love,  which  was 
a  kind  of  music  in  itself — a  music  one  danced  to. 
She  was  his,  dweller  in  his  dreams  as  he  was  always 
to  dwell  in  hers.  It  was  fate. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

WAITING  FOR  THE  END  OF  THE  STORY 

AT  home  on  the  Hill  Ruth's  affairs  developed 
slowly.  It  was  in  time  ascertained  from  Australia 
that  the  Farringdon  pearls  had  come  to  America 
in  the  possession  of  Miss  Farringdon  who  was 
named  Elinor  Ruth,  daughter  of  Roderick  and 
Esther  Farringdon,  both  deceased.  What  had 
become  of  her  and  her  pearls  no  one  knew.  Grave 
fears  had  been  entertained  as  to  the  girl's  safety 
because  of  her  prolonged  silence  and  the  utter 
failure  of  all  the  advertising  for  her  which  had 
gone  on  in  English  and  American  papers.  She 
had  come  to  America  to  join  an  aunt,  one  Mrs. 
Robert  Wright,  widow  of  a  New  York  broker,  but 
it  had  been  later  ascertained  that  Mrs.  Wright  had 
left  for  England  before  her  niece  could  have  reached 
her  and  had  subsequently  died  having  caught  a 
fever  while  engaged  in  nursing  in  a  military  hos- 
pital. Roderick  Farringdon,  the  brother  of  Elinor 
Ruth,  an  aviator  in  His  Majesty's  service,  was 
reported  missing,  believed  to  be  dead  or  in  a  Ger- 
man prison  somewhere.  The  lawyers  in  charge  of 
the  huge  business  interests  of  the  two  young  Far- 
ringdons  were  in  grave  distress  because  of  their 
inability  to  1'ocate  either  of  the  owners  and  begged 
that  if  Doctor  Laurence  Holiday  knew  anything  of 
the  whereabouts  of  Miss  Farringdon  that  he  would 
communicate  without  delay  with  them. 

So  far  so  good.  Granted  that  Ruth  was  pre- 
347 


348  WILD  WINGS 


sumably  Elinor  Ruth  Farringdon  of  Australia. 
Was  she  or  was  she  not  married?  There  had  been 
no  opportunity  in  the  cables  to  make  inquiry  about 
one  Geoffrey  Annersley  though  Larry  had  put  that 
important  question  first  in  his  letter  to  the  consul 
which  as  yet  had  received  no  answer.  The  lawyers 
stated  that  when  Miss  Farringdon  had  left  Austra- 
lia she  was  not  married  but  unsubstantiated  rumors 
had  reached  them  from  San  Francisco  hinting  at 
her  possible  marriage  there. 

All  this  failed  to  stir  Ruth's  dormant  memory 
in  any  degree.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait 
until  further  information  should  be  forthcoming. 

Not  unnaturally  these  facts  had  a  somewhat 
different  effect  upon  the  two  individuals  most 
concerned.  Ruth  was  frankly  elated  over  the  wrhole 
thing  and  found  it  by  no  means  impossible  to  believe 
that  she  was  a  princess  in  disguise  though  she  had 
played  Cinderella  contentedly  enough. 

On  the  strength  of  her  presumable  princessship 
she  had  gone  on  another  excursion  to  Boston  carry- 
ing the  Lambert  twins  with  her  this  time  and  had 
returned  laden  with  all  manner  of  feminine  frip- 
peries. She  had  an  exquisite  taste  and  made  un- 
erringly for  the  softest  and  finest  of  fabrics,  the 
hats  with  an  "air,"  the  dresses  that  were  the 
simplest,  the  most  ravishing  and  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted also  the  most  extravagant.  If  she  remem- 
bered nothing  else  Ruth  remembered  how  to  spend 
royally. 

She  had  consulted  the  senior  doctor  before  mak- 
ing the  splendid  plunge.  She  did  not  want  to  have 
Larry  buy  her  anything  more  and  she  didn't  want 
Doctor  Philip  and  Margery  to  think  her  stark  mad 
to  go  behaving  like  a  princess  before  the  princess 
purse  was  actually  in  her  hands.  But  she  had  to 
have  pretty  things,  a  lot  of  them,  had  to  have  them 
quick.  Did  the  doctor  mind  very  much  advancing 


WAITING  FOR  THE  END  OF  THE  STORY       349 

her  some  money?    He  could   keep   her   rings  as 
security. 

He  had  laughed  indulgently  and  declared  as  the 
rings  and  the  pearls  too  for  that  matter  were  in 
his  possession  in  the  safe  deposit  box  he  should 
worry.  He  also  told  her  to  go  ahead  and  be  as 
"princessy"  as  she  liked.  He  would  take  the  risk. 
Whereupon  he  placed  a  generous  sum  of  money  at 
her  account  in  a  Boston  bank  and  sent  her  away 
with  his  blessing  and  an  amused  smile  at  the  fem- 
ininity of  females.  And  Ruth  had  gone  and  played 
princess  to  her  heart's  content.  But  there  was 
little  enough  of  heart's  content  in  any  of  it  for 
poor  Larry.  Day  by  day  it  seemed  to  him  he  could 
see  his  fairy  girl  slipping  away  from  him.  Ruth 
was  a  great  lady  and  heiress.  Who  wras  Larry 
Holiday  to  take  advantage  of  the  fact  that  circum- 
stances had  almost  thrown  her  into  his  willing 
arms? 

Moreover  the  information  afforded  as  to  .Rod- 
erick Farringdon  had  put  a  new  idea  into  his 
head.  Roderick  was  reported  "missing."  Was  it 
not  possible  that  Geoffrey  Annersley  might  be  in 
the  same  category?  Missing  men  sometimes  stayed 
missing  in  war  time  but  sometimes  also  they  re- 
turned as  from  the  dead  from  enemy  prisons  or  long 
illnesses.  What  if  this  should  be  the  case  with 
the  man  who  was  presumably  Ruth's  husband? 
Certainly  it  put  out  of  the  question,  if  there  ever 
had  been  a  question  in  Larry's  mind,  his  own  right 
to  marry  the  girl  he  loved  until  they  knew  ab- 
solutely that  the  way  was  clear. 

Considering  these  things  it  was  not  strange  that 
the  new  year  found  Larry  Holiday  in  heavy  mood, 
morose,  silent,  curt  and  unresponsive  even  to  his 
uncle,  inclined  at  times  to  snap  even  at  his  beloved 
little  Goldilocks  whose  shining  new  happiness  ex- 
asperated him  because  he  could  not  share  it.  Of 


350  WILD  WINGS 


course  he  repented  in  sack  cloth  and  ashes  after- 
ward, but  repentance  did  not  prevent  other  offenses 
and  altogether  the  young  doctor  was  ill  to  live 
with  during  those  harrassed  January  days. 

It  was  not  only  Ruth.  Larry  could  not  take 
Ted's  going  with  the  quiet  fortitude  with  wrhich  his 
uncle  met  it.  Those  early  wreeks  of  nineteen  hun- 
dred and  seventeen  were  black  ones  for  many.  The 
grim  Moloch  War  demanded  more  and  ever  more 
victims.  Thousands  of  gay,  brave,  high  spirited 
lads  like  Ted  were  mown  down  daily  by  shrapnel 
and  machine  gun  or  sent  twisted  and  writhing  to 
still  more  hideous  death  in  the  unspeakable  hor- 
ror of  noxious  gases.  It  wras  all  so  unnecessary — 
so  senseless.  Larry  Holiday  whose  life  was  ded- 
icated to  the  healing  and  saving  of  men's  bodies 
hated  with  bitter  hate  this  opposing  force  wrhich 
was  all  for  destruction  and  which  held  the  groaning 
world  in  its  relentless  grip.  It  would  not  have 
been  so  bad  he  thought  if  the  Moloch  would  have 
been  content  to  take  merely  the  old,  the  life  weary, 
the  diseased,  the  vile.  Not  so.  It  demanded  the 
young,  the  strong,  the  clean  and  gallant  hearted, 
took  their  bodies,  maimed  and  tortured  them,  killed 
them  sooner  or  later,  hurled  them  undiscriminat- 
ingly  into  the  bottomless  pit  of  death. 

To  Larry  it  all  came  back  to  Ted.  Ted  wras  the 
embodiment,  the  symbol  of  the  rest.  He  was  the 
young,  the  strong,  the  clean  and  gallant  hearted— 
the  youth  of  the  world,  a  vain  sacrifice  to  the  cruel 
blindness  of  a  so  called  civilization  which  would 
not  learn  the  futility  of  war  and  all  the  ways  of 
war. 

So  while  Ruth  bought  pretty  clothes  and  basked 
in  happy  anticipations  which  for  her  took  the  place 
of  memories,  poor  Larry  walked  in  dark  places  and 
saw  no  single  ray  of  light. 

One  afternoon  he  was  summoned  to  the  telephone 


WAITING  FOR  THE  END  OF  THE  STORY      351 

to  receive  the  word  that  there  was  a  telegram  for 
him  at  the  office.  It  was  Dunbury's  informal  habit 
to  telephone  messages  of  this  sort  to  the  recipient 
instead  of  delivering  them  in  person.  Larry  took 
the  repeated  word  in  silence.  A  question  evidently 
followed  from  the  other  end. 

"Yes,  I  got  it,"  Larry  snapped  back  and  threw 
the  receiver  back  in  place  with  vicious  energy.  His 
uncle  who  had  happened  to  be  near  looked  up  to 
ask  a  question  but  the  young  doctor  was  already 
out  of  the  room  leaving  only  the  slam  of  the  door 
in  his.  wake.  A  few  moments  later  the  older  man 
saw  the  younger  start  off  down  the  Hill  in  the  car 
at  a  speed  which  was  not  unlike  Ted's  at  his  worst 
before  the  smash  on  the  Florence  road.  Evidently 
Larry  was  on  the  war  path.  Why? 

The  afternoon  wore  on.  Larry  did  not  return. 
His  uncle  began  to  be  seriously  disturbed.  A  pa- 
tient with  whom  the  junior  doctor  had  had  an 
appointment  came  and  wraited  and  finally  went 
away  somewhat  indignant  in  spite  of  all  efforts  to 
soothe  her  not  unnatural  wrath.  Worse  and  worse ! 
Larry  never  failed  his  appointments,  met  every 
obligation  invariably  as  punctiliously  as  if  for  pro- 
fessional purposes  he  was  operated  by  clock  work. 

At  supper  time  Phil  Lambert  dropped  in  with 
the  wire  which  had  already  been  reported  to  Larry 
and  which  the  company  with  the  same  informality 
already  mentioned  had  asked  him  to  deliver. 
Doctor  Holiday  was  tempted  to  read  it  but  re- 
frained. Surely  the  boy  would  be  home  soon. 

The  evening  meal  was  rather  a  silent  one.  Ruth 
was  wearing  a  charming  dark  blue  velvet  gown 
which  Larry  especially  liked.  The  doctor  guessed 
that  she  had  dressed  particularly  for  her  lover  and 
was  sadly  disappointed  when  he  failed  to  put  in 
his  appearance.  She  drooped  perceptibly  and  her 
blue  eyes  were  wistful. 


352  WILD  WINGS 


An  hour  later  when  the  three,  Margery,  her  hus- 
band, and  Ruth,  were  sitting  quietly  engaged  in 
reading  in  the  living  room  they  heard  the  sound  of 
the  returning  car.  All  three  were  distinctly  con- 
scious of  an  involuntary  breath  of  relief  which 
permeated  the  room.  Nobody  had  said  a  word  but 
every  one  of  them  had  been  filled  with  foreboding. 

Presently  Larry  entered  with  the  yellow  envelope 
in  his  hand.  He  was  pale  and  very  tired  looking 
but  obviously  entirely  in  command  of  himself  what- 
ever had  been  the  case  earlier  in  the  day.  He 
crossed  the  room  to  where  his  uncle  sat  and  handed 
him  the  telegram. 

"Please  read  it  aloud,"  he  said.  "It — it  concerns 
all  of  us." 

The  older  doctor  complied  with  the  request. 

Arrive  Duribury  January  ISmine  forty  A.M.  So 
ran  the  brief  though  pregnant  message.  It  was 
signed  Captain  Geoffrey  Annersley. 

The  color  went  out  of  Ruth's  face  as  she  heard 
the  name.  She  put  her  hands  over  her  eyes  and 
uttered  a  little  moan.  Then  abruptly  she  dropped 
her  hands,  the  color  came  surging  back  into  her 
cheeks  and  she  ran  to  Larry,  fairly  throwing  her- 
self into  his  arms. 

"I  don't  want  to  see  him.  Don't  let  him  come. 
I  hate  him.  I  don't  want  to  be  Elinor  Farringdon. 
I  want  to  be  just  Ruth — Ruth  Holiday,"  she  whis- 
pered the  last  in  Larry's  ear,  her  head  on  his 
shoulder. 

Larry  kissed  her  for  the  first  time  before  the 
others,  then  meeting  his  uncle's  grave  eyes  he  put 
her  gently  from  him  and  walked  over  to  the  door. 
On  the  threshold  he  turned  and  faced  them  all. 

"Uncle  Phil — Aunt  Margery,  help  Ruth.  I 
can't."  And  the  door  closed  upon  him. 

Philip  and  Margery  did  their  best  to  obey  his 
parting  injunction  but  it  was  not  an  easy  task. 


WAITING  FOR  THE  END  OF  THE  STORY      353 

Ruth  was  possessed  by  a  very  panic  of  dread  of 
Geoffrey  Annersley  and  an  even  more  difficult  to 
deal  with  flood  of  love  for  Larry  Holiday. 

"I  don't  wrant  anybody  but  Larry/'  she  wailed 
over  and  over.  "It  is  Larry  I  love.  I  don't  love 
Geoffrey  Annersley.  I  won't  let  him  be  my  hus- 
band. I  don't  want  anybody  but  Larry." 

In  vain  they  tried  to  comfort  her,  entreat  her  to 
wait  until  to-morrow  before  she  gave  up.  Perhaps 
Geoffrey  Annersley  wasn't  her  husband.  Perhaps 
everything  was  quite  all-right.  She  must  try  to 
have  patience  and  not  let  herself  get  sick  worrying 
in  advance. 

"He  is  my  husband,"  she  suddenly  announced 
with  startling  conviction.  "I  remember  his  putting 
the  ring  on  my  finger.  I  remember  his  saying 
'You've  got  to  wear  it.  It  is  the  only  thing  to  do. 
You  must.'  I  remember  what  he  looks  like — 
almost.  He  is  tall  and  he  has  a  scar  on  his  cheek 
— here."  She  patted  her  own  face  feverishly 
to  show  the  spot.  "He  made  me  wear  the  ring 
and  I  didn't  want  to.  I  didn't  want  to.  Oh, 
don't  let  me  remember.  Don't  let  me,"  she  im- 
plored. 

At  this  point  the  doctor  took  things  in  his  own 
hands.  The  child  was  obviously  beginning  to 
remember.  The  shock  of  the  man's  coming  had 
snapped  something  in  her  brain.  They  must  not 
let  things  come  back  too  disastrously  fast.  He 
packed  her  off  to  bed  with  a  stiff  dose  of  nerve 
quieting  medicine.  Margery  sat  with  her  arms 
tight  around  the  forlorn  little  sufferer  and  pres- 
ently the  dreary  sobbing  ceased  and  the  girl  drifted 
off  to  exhausted  sleep,  nature's  kindest  panacea  for 
all  human  ills. 

Meanwhile  the  doctor  sought  out  Larry.  He 
found  him  in  the  office  apparently  completely  ab- 
sorbed in  the  perusal  of  a  medical  magazine.  He 


354  WILD  WINGS 


looked  up  quickly  as  the  older  man  entered  and 
answered  the  question  in  his  eyes  giving  assurance 
.that  Ruth  was  quite  all  right,  would  soon  be  asleep 
if  she  was  not  already.  He  made  no  mention  of 
that  disconcerting  flash  of  memory.  Sufficient  un- 
to the  day  was  the  trouble  thereof. 

He  came  over  and  laid  a  kindly,  encouraging 
hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder. 

"Keep  up  heart  a  little  longer,"  he  said.  "By  to- 
morrow you  will  know  where  you  stand  and 
that  will  be  something,  no  matter  which  way  it 
turns." 

"I  should  say  it  would,"  groaned  Larry.  "I'm 
sick  of  being  in  a  labyrinth.  Even  the  worst  can't 
be  much  worse  than  not  knowing.  You  don't  know 
how  tough  it  has  been,  Uncle  Phil.'' 

"I  can  make  a  fairly  good  guess  at  it,  my  boy. 
I've  seen  and  understood  more  than  you  realize 
perhaps.  You  have  put  up  a  magnificent  fight, 
son.  And  you  are  the  boy  who  once  told  me  he 
was  a  coward." 

"I  am  afraid  I  still  am,  Uncle  Phil, — sometimes." 

"We  all  are,  Larry,  cowards  in  our  hearts,  but 
that  does  not  matter  so  long  as  the  yellow  streak 
doesn't  get  into  our  acts.  You  have  not  let  that 
happen  I  think." 

Larry  was  silent.  He  was  remembering  that 
night  when  Ruth  had  come  to  him.  He  wasn't 
very  proud  of  the  memory.  He  wondered  if  his 
uncle  guessed  how  near  the  yellow  streak  had  come 
to  the  surface  on  that  occasion. 

"I  don't  deserve  as  much  credit  as  you  are  giving 
me,"  he  said  humbly.  "There  have  been  times — at 
least  one  time — "  He  broke  off. 

"You  would  have  been  less  than  a  man  if  there 
had  not  been,  Larry.  I  understand  all  that.  But 
on  the  whole  you  know  and  I  know  that  you  have 
a  clean  slate  to  show.  Don't  let  yourself  get 


WAITING  FOR  THE  END  OF  THE  STORY      355 

morbid  worrying  about  things  you  might  have  done 
and  didn't.  They  don't  worry  me.  They  needn't 
worry  you.  Forget  it." 

"Uncle  Phil !  You  are  great  the  way  you 
always  clear  away  the  fogs.  But  my  clean  slate 
is  a  great  deal  thanks  to  you.  I  don't  know  where 
I  would  have  landed  if  you  hadn't  held  me  back, 
not  so  much  by  what  you  said  as  what  you  are. 
Ted  isn't  the  only  one  who  has  learned  to  appreciate 
what  a  pillar  of  strength  we  all  have  in  you.  How- 
ever this  comes  out  I  shan't  forget  what  you  did 
for  me,-  are  doing  all  the  time." 

"Thank  you,  Larry.  It  is  good  to  hear  things 
like  that  though  I  think  you  underestimate  your 
own  strength.  I  am  thankful  if  I  have  helped  in 
any  degree.  I  have  felt  futile  enough.  We  all 
have.  At  any  rate  the  strain  is  about  over.  The 
telegram  must  have  been  a  knock  down  blow  though. 
Where  were  you  this  afternoon?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  just  drove  like  the  devil- 
anywhere.  Did  you  worry?  I  am  sorry.  Good 
Lord!  I  cut  my  appointment  with  Mrs.  Blake, 
didn't  I?  I  never  thought  of  it  until  this  minute. 
Gee!  I  am  worse  than  Ted.  Used  to  think  I  had 
some  balance  but  evidently  I  am  a  plain  nut.  I'm 
disgusted  with  myself  and  I  should  think  you  would 
be  more  disgusted  with  me."  The  boy  looked  up 
at  his  uncle  with  eyes  that  were  full  of  shamed 
compunction. 

But  the  latter  smiled  back  consolingly. 

"Don't  worry.  There  are  worse  things  in  the 
world  than  cutting  an  appointment  for  good  and 
sufficient  reasons.  You  will  get  back  your  balance 
when  things  get  normal  again.  I  have  no 
complaint  to  make  anyway.  You  have  kept  up  the 
professional  end  splendidly  until  now.  What  you 
need  is  a  good  long  vacation  and  I  am  going  to 
pack  you  off  on  one  at  the  earliest  opportunity. 


356  WILD  WINGS 


Do  you  want  me  to  meet  Captain  Annersley  for 
you  to-morrow?"  he  switched  off  to  ask. 

Larry  shook  his  head. 

"No,  I'll  meet  him  myself,  thank  you.  It  is  my 
job.  I  am  not  going  to  flunk  it.  If  he  is  Ruth's 
husband  I  am  going  to  be  the  first  to  shake  hands 
with  him." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 
i 

IN  WHICH  TWO  MASSEYS  MEET  IN  MEXICO 

AND  while  things  were  moving  toward  their  crisis 
for  Larry  and  Ruth  another  drama  was  progressing 
more  or  less  swiftly  to  its  conclusion  down  in  Vera 
Cruz.  Alan  Massey  had  found  his  cousin  in  a 
wretched,  vermin  haunted  shack,  nursed  in  hap- 
hazard fashion  by  a  slovenly,  ignorant  half-breed 
woman  under  the  ostensible  professional  care  of  a 
mercenary,  incompetent,  drunken  Mexican  doctor 
who  cared  little  enough  whether  the  dog  of  an 
American  lived  or  died  so  long  as  he  himself  con- 
tinued to  get  the  generous  checks  from  a  certain 
newspaper  in  New  York  City.  The  doctor  held 
the  credulity  of  the  men  who  mailed  those  checks  in 
fine  contempt  and  proceeded  to  feather  his  nest 
valiantly  while  his  good  luck  continued,  going  on 
many  a  glorious  spree  at  the  paper's  expense  while 
Dick  Carson  went  down  every  day  deeper  into  the 
valley  of  the  shadow  of  death. 

With  the  coming  of  Alan  Massey  however  a  new 
era  began.  Alan  was  apt  to  leave  transformation 
of  one  sort  or  another  in  his  wake.  It  was  not 
merely  his  money  magic  though  he  wielded  that 
magnificently  as  was  his  habit  and  predilection, 
spent  Mexican  dollars  with  a  superb  disregard  of 
their  value  which  won  from  the  natives  a  respect 
akin  to  awe  and  wrought  miracles  wherever  the 
golden  flow  touched.  But  there  was  more  than 
money  magic  to  Alan  Massey's  performance  in  Vera 

357 


358  WILD  WINGS 


Cruz.  There  was  also  the  magic  of  his  dominating, 
magnetic  personality.  He  was  a  born  master  and 
every  one  high  or  low  who  crossed  his  path  rec- 
ognized his  rightful  ascendency  and  hastened  to 
obey  his  royal  will. 

His  first  step  was  to  get  the  sick  man  transferred 
from  the  filthy  hovel  in  which  he  found  him  to  clean, 
comfortable  quarters  in  an  ancient  adobe  palace, 
screened,  airy,  spacious.     The  second  step  was  to 
secure  the  services  of  two  competent  and  high  priced 
nurses  from  Mexico  City,  one  an  American,  the 
other  an  English  woman,  both  experienced,  intrepid, 
efficient.     The    third    step    taken    simultaneously 
with  the  other  two  was  to  dismiss  the  man  who 
masqueraded  as  a  physician  though  he  was  nothing 
in  reality  but  a  cheap  charlatan  fattening  himself 
at  the  expense  of  weakness  and  disease.     The  man 
had  been  inclined  to  make  trouble  at  first  about 
his  unceremonious  discharge.     He  had  no  mind  to 
lose  without  a  protest  such  a  convenient  source  of 
unearned  increment  as  those  checks  represented. 
He  had   intended  to  get  in  many  another  good 
carouse  before  the  sick  man  died  or  got  well  as 
nature  willed.     But  a  single  interview  with  Alan 
Massey  sufficed  to  lay  his  objections  to  leaving  the 
case.     In  concise  and  forcible  language  couched  in 
perfect  Spanish  Alan  had  made  it  clear  that  if  the 
so-called   doctor  came  near  his  victim   again   he 
would  be  shot  down  like  a  dog  and  if  Carson  died 
he  would  in  any  case  be  tried  for  man  slaughter 
and  hanged  on  the  spot.     The  last  point  had  been 
further  punctuated  by  an   expressive  gesture  on 
the   speaker's   part,    pointing   to   his   own    throat 
accompanied  by  a  significant  little  gurgling  sound. 
The  gesture  and  the  gurgle  had  been  convincing. 
The  man  surrendered  the  case  in  some  haste.     He 
did  not  at  all  care  for  the  style  of  conversation 
indulged  in  by  this  tall,  unsmiling,  green-eyed  man. 


TWO  MASSEYS  MEET  IN  MEXICO         359 

Consequently  he  immediately  evaporated  to  all 
intents  and  purposes  and  was  seen  no  more.  The 
new  physician  put  in  charge  was  a  different  breed 
entirely,  a  man  who  had  the  authentic  gift  and 
passion  for  healing  which  the  born  doctor  always 
possesses,  be  he  Christian  or  heathen,  gypsy  herb 
mixer  or  ten  thousand  dollar  specialist.  Alan 
explained  to  this  man  precisely  what  was  required 
of  him,  explained  in  the  same  forcible,  concise, 
perfect  Spanish  that  had  banished  the  other  so 
completely.  His  job  was  to  cure  the  sick  man. 
If  he  succeeded  there  would  be  a  generous  remunera- 
tion. If*  he  failed  through  no  fault  of  his  there 
would  still  be  fair  remuneration  though  nothing 
like  what  would  be  his  in  case  of  complete  recovery. 
If  he  failed  through  negligence — and  here  the  ex- 
pressive gesture  and  the  gurgle  were  repeated — . 
The  sentence  had  not  needed  completion.  The 
matter  was  sufficiently  elucidated.  The  man  was 
a  born  healer  as  has  been  recorded  but  even  if  he 
had  not  been  he  would  still  have  felt  obliged  to 
move  heaven  and  earth  so  far  as  in  him  lay  to  cure 
Dick  Carson.  Alan  Massey's  manner  was  persua- 
sive. One  did  one's  best  to  satisfy  a  person  who 
spoke  such  Spanish  and  made  such  ominous  ges- 
tures. One  did  as  one  was  commanded.  One  dared 
do  no  other. 

As  for  the  servants  whom  Alan  rallied  to  his 
standard  they  were  slaves  rather  than  servants. 
They  recognized  in  him  their  preordained  master, 
were  wax  to  his  hands,  mats  to  his  feet.  They 
obeyed  his  word  as  obsequiously,  faithfully  and  un- 
questioningly  as  if  he  could  by  a  clap  of  his  lordly 
hands  banish  them  to  strange  deaths. 

They  talked  in  low  tones  about  him  among  them- 
selves behind  his  back.  This  was  no  American 
they  said.  No  American  could  command  as  this 
green-eyed  one  commanded.  No  American  had  such 


360  WILD  WINGS 


gift  of  tongues,  such  gestures,  such  picturesque  and 
varied  and  awesome  oaths.  No  American  carried 
small  bright  flashing  daggers  such  as  he  carried  in 
his  inner  pockets,  nor  did  Americans  talk  glibly 
as  he  talked  of  weird  poisons,  not  every  day  drugs, 
but  marvelous,  death  dealing  concoctions  done  up 
in  lustrous  jewel-like  capsules  or  diluted  in  spark- 
ling, insidious  gorgeous  hued  fluids.  The  man  was 
too  wise — altogether  too  wise  to  be  an  American. 
He  had  traveled  much,  knew  strange  secrets. 
They  rather  thought  he  knew  black  art.  Certainly 
he  knew  more  of  the  arts  of  healing  than  the  doctor 
himself.  There  was  nothing  he  did  not  know,  the 
green-eyed  one.  It  was  best  to  obey  him. 

And  while  Alan  Massey's  various  arts  operated 
Dick  Carson  passed  through  a  series  of  mental  and 
physical  evolutions  and  came  slowly  back  to  con- 
sciousness of  what  was  going  on. 

At  first  he  was  too  close  to  the  hinterland  to 
know  or  care  as  to  what  was  happening  here, 
though  he  did  vaguely  sense  that  he  had  left  the 
lower  levels  of  Hell  and  was  traversing  a  milder 
purgatorial  region.  He  did  not  question  Alan's 
presence  or  recognize  him.  Alan  was  at  first 
simply  another  of  those  distrusted  foreigners  whose 
point  of  view  and  character  he  comprehended  as 
little  as  he  did  their  jibbering  tongues. 

Gradually  however  this  one  man  seemed  to  stand 
out  from  the  others  and  finally  took  upon  himself 
a  name  and  an  entity.  By  and  by,  Dick  thought, 
when  he  wasn't  so  infernally  iired  as  he  was  just 
now  he  would  wonder  why  Alan  Massey  was  here 
and  would  try  to  recall  why  he  had  disliked  him 
so,  some  time  a  million  years  ago  or  so.  He  did 
not  dislike  him  now.  He  was  too  weak  to  dislike 
anybody  in  any  case  but  he  was  beginning  to 
connect  Alan  vaguely  but  surely  with  the  superior 
cleanliness  and  comfort  and  care  with  which  he 


TWO  MASSEYS  MEET  IN  MEXICO          361 

was  now  surrounded.  He  knew  now  that  he  had 
been  sick,  very  sick  and  that  he  was  getting  better, 
knew  that  before  long  he  would  find  himself  ask- 
ing questions.  Even  now  his  eyes  followed  Alan 
Massey  as  the  latter  came  and  went  with  an  ever 
more  insistent  wonderment  though  he  had  not  yet 
the  force  of  will  or  body  to  voice  that  pursuing 
question  as  to  why  Alan  Massey  was  here  appar- 
ently taking  charge  of  his  own  slow  return  to 
health  and  consciousness. 

Meanwhile  Alan  wired  Tony  Holiday  every  day 
as  to  his  patient's  condition  though  he  wrote  not 
at  all  and  said  nothing  in  his  wires  of  himself. 
Letters  from  Tony  were  now  beginning  to  arrive, 
letters  full  of  eager  gratitude  and  love  for  Alan 
and  concern  for  Dick. 

And  one  day  Dick's  mind  got  suddenly  very  clear. 
He  was  alone  with  the  nurse  at  the  time,  the  sym- 
pathetic American  one  whom  he  liked  better  and 
was  less  afraid  of  than  he  was  of  the  stolid,  inexor- 
able British  lady.  And  he  began  to  ask  questions, 
many  questions  and  very  definite  ones.  He  knew 
at  last  precisely  what  it  was  he  wanted  to 
know. 

He  got  a  good  deal  of  information  though  by  no 
means  all  he  sought.  He  found  out  that  he  had 
been  taken  desperately  ill,  that  he  had  been  sum- 
marily removed  from  his  lodging  place  because  of 
the  owner's  superstitious  dread  of  contagion  into 
the  miserable  little  thatch  roofed  hut  in  which  he 
had  nearly  died  thanks  to  the  mal-practice  of  the 
rascally,  drunken  doctor  and  the  ignorant  half- 
breed  nurse.  He  learned  how  Alan  Massey  had 
suddenly  appeared  and  taken  things  in  his  own 
hands,  discovered  that  in  a  nutshell  the  fact  was 
he  owed  his  life  to  the  other  man.  But  why?  That 
was  what  he  had  to  find  out  from  Alan  Massey 
himself. 


362  WILD  WINGS 


The  next  day  when  Alan  came  in  and  the  nurse 
went  out  he  asked  his  question. 

"That  is  easy,"  said  Alan  grimly.  "I  came  on 
Tony's  account." 

Dick  winced.  Of  course  that  was  it.  Tony  had 
sent  Massey.  He  was  here  as  her  emissary,  nat- 
urally, no  doubt  as  her  accepted  lover.  It  was 
kind.  Tony  was  always  kind  but  he  wished  she 
had  not  done  it.  He  did  not  want  to  have  his  life 
saved  by  the  man  who  was  going  to  marry  Tony 
Holiday.  He  rather  thought  he  did  not  want  his 
life  saved  anyway  -by  anybody.  He  wished  they 
hadn't  done  it. 

"I — I  am  much  obliged  to  you  and  to  Tony," 
he  said  a  little  stiffly.  "I  fear  it — it  was  hardly 
worth  the  effort."  His  eyes  closed  wearily. 

"Tony  didn't  send  me  though,"  observed  Alan 
Massey  as  if  he  had  read  the  other's  thought.  "I 
sent  myself." 

Dick's  eyes  opened. 

"That  is  odd  if  it  is  true,"  he  said  slowly. 

Alan  dropped  into  a  chair  near  the  bed. 

"It  is  odd,"  he  admitted.  "But  it  happens  to  be 
true.  It  came  about  simply  enough.  When  Tony 
heard  you  were  sick  she  went  crazy,  swore  she  was 
coming  down  here  in  spite  of  us  all  to  take  care 
of  you.  Then  Miss  Clay's  child  died  and  she  had 
to  go  on  the  boards.  You  can  imagine  what  it 
meant  to  her — the  two  things  coming  at  once.  She 
played  that  night — swept  everything  as  you'd  know 
she  would — got  'em  all  at  her  feet." 

Dick  nodded,  a  faint  flash  of  pleasure  in  his  eyes. 
Down  and  out  as  he  was  he  could  still  be  glad  to 
hear  of  Tony's  triumph. 

"She  wanted  to  come  to  you,"  went  on  Alan. 
"She  let  me  come  instead  because  she  couldn't 
I  came  for — for  her  sake." 

Dick  nodded. 


TWO  MASSEYS  MEET  IN  MEXICO          363 

"Naturally — for  her  sake,"  he  said.  "I  could 
hardly  have  expected  you  to  come  for  mine.  I 
would  hardly  have  expected  it  in  any  case.'' 

"I  would  hardly  have  expected  it  of  myself," 
acknowledged  Alan  with  a  wry  smile.  "But  I've 
had  rather  a  jolly  time  at  your  expense.  I've 
always  enjoyed  working  miracles  and  if  you  could 
have  seen  yourself  the  way  you  were  when  I  got 
here  you  would  think  there  was  a  -magic  in  it  some- 
how." 

"I  evidently  owe  you  a  great  deal,  Mr.  Massey. 
I  am  grateful  or  at  least  I  presume  I  shall  be  later. 
Just  now  I  feel  a  little — dumb." 

"My  dear  fellow,  nothing  would  please  me  better 
than  to  have  you  continue  dumb  on  that  subject. 
I  did  this  thing  as  I've  done  most  things  in  my 
life  to  please  myself.  I  don't  want  your  thanks. 
I  would  like  a  little  of  your  liking  though.  You 
and  I  -are  likely  to  see  quite  a  bit  of  each  other 
these  next  few  weeks.  Could  you  manage  to  forget 
the  past  and  call  a  kind  of  truce  for  a  while?  You 
have  a  good  deal  to  forgive  me — perhaps  more  than 
you  know.  If  you  would  be  willing  to  let  the  little 
I  have  done  down  here — and  mind  you  I  don't 
want  to-  magnify  that  part — wipe  off  the  slate 
I  should  be  glad.  Could  you  manage  it,  Car- 
son?" 

"It  looks  as  if  it  hardly  could  be  magnified," 
said  Dick  with  sudden  heartiness.  "I  spoke  grudg- 
ingly just  now  I  am  afraid.  Please  overlook  it. 
I  am  more  than  grateful  for  all  you  have  done  and 
more  than  glad  to  be  friends  if  you  want  it.  I 
don't  hate  you.  How  could. I  when  you  have  saved 
my  life  and  anyway  I  never  hated  you  as  you  used 
to  hate  me.  I've  often  wondered  why  you  did, 
especially  at  first  before  you  knew  how  much  I 
cared  for  Tony.  And  even  that  shouldn't  have 
made  you  hate  me  because — you  won." 


364  WILD  WINGS 


"Never  mind  why  I  hated  you.  I  don't  any 
more.  Will  you  shake  hands  with  me,  Carson,  so 
we  can  begin  again?" 

Dick  pulled  himself  weakly  up  on  the  pillow. 
Their  hands  met. 

"Hang  it,  Massey,"  Dick  said.  "I  am  afraid  I  am 
going  to  like  you.  I've  heard  you  were  hypnotic. 
I  believe  on  my  soul  you  came  down  here  to  make 
me  like  you?  Did  you?" 

But  Alan  only  smiled  his  ironic,  noncommital 
smile  and  remarked  it  was  time  for  the  invalid  to 
take  a  nap.  He  had  had  enough  conversation  for 
the  first  attempt. 

Dick  soon  drifted  off  to  sleep  but  Alan  Massey 
prowled  the  streets  of  the  Mexican  city  far  into 
the  night,  with  tireless,  driven  feet.  The  demons 
were  after  him  again. 

And  far  away  in  another  city  whose  bright  lights 
glow  all  night  Tony  Holiday  was  still  playing 
Madge  to  packed  houses,  happy  in  her  triumph  but 
with  heart  very  pitiful  for  her  beloved  Miss  Clay 
whose  sorrow  and  continued  illness  had  made 
possible  the  fruition  of  her  own  eager  hopes.  Tony 
was  sadly  lonely  without  Alan,  thought  of  him  far 
more  often  and  with  deeper  affection  even  than 
she  had  while  she  had  him  at  her  beck  and  call  in 
the  city,  loved  him  with  a  new  kind  of  love  for  his 
generous  kindness  to  Dick.  She  made  up  her  mind 
that  he  had  cleared  the  shield  forever  by  this  splen- 
did act  and  saw  no  reason  why  she  should  keep  him 
any  longer  on  probation.  Surely  she  knew  by  this 
time  that  he  was  a  man  even  a  Holiday  might  be 
proud  to  marry. 

She  wrote  this  decision  to  her  uncle  and  asked 
to  be  relieved  from  her  promise. 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  wrote,  "if  you  cannot  approve 
but  I  cannot  help  it.  I  love  him  and  I  am  going 
to  be  engaged  to  him  as  soon  as  he  comes  back  to 


TWO  MASSEYS  MEET  IN  MEXICO          365 

New  York  if  he  wants  it.  I  am  afraid  I  would 
have  married  him  and  gone  to  Mexico  with  him, 
given  up  the  play  and  broken  my  promise  to  you,  if 
he  would  have  let  me.  It  goes  that  far  and  deep 
with  me. 

"People  are  crazy  over  his  pictures.  The  exhibi- 
tion came  off  last  week  and  they  say  he  is  one  of 
the  greatest  living  painters  with  a  wonderful  future 
ahead  of  him.  I  am  so  proud  and  happy.  He  is 
fine  everyway  now,  has  really  sloughed  off  the  past 
just  as  he  promised  he  would.  So  please,  dear 
Uncle  Phil,  forgive  me  if  I  do  what  you  don't  want 
me  to.  -I  have  to  marry  him.  In  my  heart  I  am 
married  to  him  already." 

And  this  was  the  letter  Philip  Holiday  found 
at  his  place  at  breakfast  on  the  morning  of  the  day 
Geoffrey  Annersley  was  expected.  He  read  it 
gravely.  Rash,  loving,  generous-hearted  Tony. 
Where  was  she  going?  Ah  well,  she  was  no  longer 
a  child  to  be  protected  from  the  storm  and  stress 
of  life.  She  was  a  woman  grown,  woman  enough 
to  love  and  to  be  loved  greatly,  to  sacrifice  and 
suffer  if  need  be  for  love's  mighty  sake.  She  must 
go  her  way  as  Ted  had  gone  his,  as  their  father  had 
gone  his  before  them.  He  could  only  pray  that 
she  was  right  in  her  faith  that  for  love  of  her  Alan 
Massey  had  been  born  anew. 

His  own  deep  affection  for  Ned's  children  seemed 
at  the  moment  a  sadly  powerless  thing.  He  had 
coveted  the  best  things  of  life  for  them,  happy, 
normal  ways  of  peace  and  gentle  living.  Yet  here 
was  Ted  at  twenty  already  lived  through  an  expe- 
rience, tragic  enough  to  leave  its  scarlet  mark  for 
all  the  rest  of  his  life  and  even  now  on  the  verge 
of  vohmtarity  entering  a  terrific  conflict  from 
which  few  returned  alive  and  none  came  back  un- 
changed. Here  was  Tony  taking  upon  herself  the 
thraldom  of  a  love,  which  try  as  he  would  Philip 


366  WILD  WINGS 


Holiday  could  not  see  in  any  other  light  but  as  at 
best  a  cataclysmic  risk.  And  at  this  very  hour  Lar- 
ry might  be  learning  that  the  desire  of  his  heart 
was  dust  and  ashes,  his  hope  a  vain  thing,  himself 
an  exile  henceforth  from  the  things  that  round  out 
a  man's  life,  make  it  full  and  rich  and  satisfying. 
And  yet  thinking  of  the  three  Philip  Holiday 
found  one  clear  ray  of  comfort.  With  all  their 
vagaries,  their  rash  impulsions,  their  willful  blind- 
ness, their  recklessness,  they  had  each  run  splen- 
didly true  to  type.  Not  one  of  the  three  had  failed 
in  the  things  that  really  count.  He  had  faith  that 
none  of  them  ever  would.  They  might  blunder 
egregiously,  suffer  immeasurably,  pay  extrav- 
agantly, but  they  would  each  keep  that  vital  spirit 
which  they  had  in  common,  untarnished  and  un- 
daunted, an  unconquerable  thing. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

GEOFFREY  ANNERSLEY  ARRIVES 

THERE  were  few  passengers  alighting  from  the 
south  bound  train  from  Canada.  Larry  Holiday 
had  no  difficulty  in  picking  out  Geoffrey  Annersley 
among  these,  a  tall  young  man,  wearing  the  Brit- 
ish uniform  and  supporting  himself  with  a  walk- 
ing stick.  His  face  was  lean  and  bronzed  and  lined, 
the  face  of  a  man  who  has  seen  things  wrhich  kill 
youth  and  laughter  and  yet  a  serene  face  too 
as  if  its  owner  had  found  that  after  all  nothing 
mattered  very  much  if  you  looked  it  square  in  the 
eye. 

Larry  went  to  the  stranger  at  once. 

"Captain  Annersley?''  he  asked.  "I  am  Laurence 
Holiday." 

The  captain  set  down  his  bag,  leaned  on  his 
stick,  deliberately  scrutinized  the  other  man. 
Larry  returned  the  look  frankly.  They  were  of 
nearly  the  same  age  but  any  one  seeing  them  would 
have  set  the  Englishman  as  at  least  five  years  the 
senior  of  the  young  doctor.  Geoffrey  Annersley 
had  been  trained  in  a  stern  school.  A  man  does 
not  wear  a  captain's  bars  and  four  wound  stripes 
for  nothing. 

Then  the  Englishman  held  out  his  hand  with  a 
pleasant  and  unexpectedly  boyish  smile. 

"So  you  are  Larry,"  he  said.  "Your  brother 
sent  me  to  you." 

"Ted!  You  have  seen  him?"  For  a  minute 
Larry  forgot  who  Geoffrey  Annersley  was,  forgot 
Ruth,  forgot  himself,  remembered  only  Ted  and 

367 


368  WILD  WINGS 


gave  his  guest  a  heartier  handshake  than  he  had 
willed  for  his  "Kid"  brother's  sake. 

"Yes,  I  was  with  him  day  before  yesterday  and 
the  night  before  that.  He  was  looking  jolly  well 
and  sent  all  kinds  of  greetings  to  you  all.  See 
here,  Doctor  Holiday,  I  have  no  end  of  things  to 
say  to  you.  Can  we  go  somewhere  and  talk?" 

"My  car  is  outside.  You  will  come  up  to  the 
house  will  you  not?  We  are  all  expecting  you." 
Larry  tried  hard  to  keep  his  voice  quiet  and 
emotionless.  Not  for  anything  would  he  have  had 
this  gallant  soldier  suspect  how  his  knees  were 
trembling. 

"Delighted,"  bowed  the  captain  suavely  and 
permitted  Larry  to  take  his  bag  and  lead  the  way 
to  the  car.  Nothing  more  was  said  until  the  two 
men  were  seated  and  the  car  had  left  the  station 
yard. 

"I  am  afraid  I  should  have  made  my  wire  a  bit 
more  explicit,"  observed  the  captain  turning  to 
Larry.  "My  wife  says  I  am  too  parsimonious  with 
my  words  in  telegrams — a  British  trait  possibly." 
He  spoke  deliberately  and  his  keen  eyes  studied 
his  companion's  face  as  he  made  the  casual  remark 
which  set  Larry's  brain  reeling.  "See  here,  Holi- 
day, I'm  a  blunt  brute.  I  don't  know  how  to  break 
things  gently  to  people.  But  I  am  here  to  tell 
you  if  you  care  to  know  that  Elinor  Ruth  Farring- 
don  is  no  more  married  than  you  are  unless  she 
is  married  to  you.  That  was  her  mother's  wedding 
ring.  Lord,  man,  do  you  always  drive  a  car  like 
this?  I've  been  all  but  killed  once  this  year  and 
I  don't  care  to  repeat  the  experiment." 

Larry  grinned,  flushed,  apologized  and  moderated 
the  speed  of  his  motor.  He  wondered  that  he 
could  drive  at  all.  He  felt  strangely  light  as  if 
he  were  stripped  of  his  body  and  were  nothing  but 
spirit. 


GEOFFREY  ANNERSLEY  ARRIVES         369 

"Do  you  mind  if  we  drive  about  a  bit  and  talk 
things  over  before  I  see  Elinor — Ruth,  as  you  call 
her?  I'm  funking  that  a  little  though  I've  been 
trying  ever  since  your  brother  told  me  the  story  to 
get  used  to  the  idea  of  her  being,  well  not  quite 
right,  you  know.  But  I  can't  stick  it  somehow." 

"She  is  all  right,  perfectly  normal  every  way 
except  that  she  had  forgotten  things."  Larry's 
voice  was  faintly  indignant.  He  resented  any- 
body's implying  that  Euth  was  queer,  unbalanced 
in  any  way.  She  wasn't.  She  was  absolutely 
sane,,  as  sane  as  Captain  Annersley  himself, 
considerably  more  sane  than  Larry  Holiday  could 
take  oath  he  was  at  this  moment. 

"Good  heavens!  Isn't  that  enough?"  groaned 
Annersley  almost  equally  indignant.  "You  forget 
or  rather  you  don't  know  all  she  has  forgotten.  I 
know.  I  was  brought  up  with  her.  Her  father 
was  my  uncle  and  guardian.  We  played  together, 
had  the  same  tutor,  rode  the  same  ponies,  got  into 
the  same  jolly  old  scrapes.  Why,  Elinor's  like  my 
own  sister,  man.  I  can't  swallow  her  forgetting 
me  and  her  brother  Eod  and  all  the  rest  as  easily 
as  you  seem  to  do.  It — well,  it's  the  limit  as  you 
say  in  the  states."  The  captain  wiped  his  fore- 
head on  which  great  drops  of  perspiration  stood 
in  spite  of  the  January  chill  in  the  air.  There  was 
agitation,  suppressed  vehemence  in  his  tone. 

"I  suppose  it  is  natural  that  you  should  feel 
that  way."  Larry  spoke  thoughtfully  as  he  turned 
the  car  away  from  the  Hill  in  response  to  his 
guest's  request  that  he  be  permitted  to  postpone 
meeting  Elinor  Kuth  Farringdon  a  little  while. 
"The  remembering  part  hasn't  bothered  me  so 
much.  Maybe  I  wasn't  very  keen  on  having  her 
remember.  Maybe  I  was  afraid  she  would  remem- 
ber too  much,"  he  added  coloring  a  little. 

The  frown  on  his  companion's  stern  young  face 


370  WILD  WINGS 


melted  at  that.  The  frank,  boyish  smile  appeared 
again.  He  liked  Larry  Holiday  none  the  less  for 
his  lack  of  pretense.  He  understood  all  that.  The 
younger  Holiday  had  taken  pains  to  make  things 
perfectly  clear  to  him.  He  knew  precisely  what 
the  young  doctor  was  afraid  of  and  why  in  case 
Elinor  Farringdon's  memory  returned. 

"My  uncle  thinks  and  I  think  too  that  her  mem- 
ory will  come  back  now  that  it  has  the  external 
stimulus  to  waken  it,"  Larry  continued.  "I 
shouldn't  be  surprised  if  seeing  you  would  give  the 
necessary  impetus.  In  fact  I  am  counting  on  that 
very  thing  happening,  hoping  for  it  with  all  my 
might.  That  was  one  of  the  reasons  I  was  glad 
to  have  you  come.  Please  believe  that  I  should 
have  been  glad  even  if  your  coming  had  made  her 
remember  she  was  your  wife.  Of  course  her  recov- 
ery is  the  main  thing.  The  rest  is — a  side  issue." 

"A  jolly  important  side  issue  I  take  it  for  her 
and  for  you.  I'm  not  a  stranger,  Doctor  Holiday. 
I  am  Elinor  Ruth  Farringdon's  cousin,  in  her 
brother's  absence  I  represent  her  family  and  in 
that  capacity  I  would  like  to  say  before  I  am  a 
minute  older  that  what  you  and  the  rest  of  you 
Holidays  have  done  for  Elinor  passes  anything  I 
know  of  for  sheer  fineness  and  generosity.  I'm  not 
a  man  of  words.  War  would  have  knocked  them  out 
of  me  if  I  had  been  but  when  I  remember  that  you 
not  only  saved  Elinor's  life  but  took  care  of  her 
afterward  when  she  apparently  hadn't  a  friend  in 
the  world — well,  there  isn't  anything  I  can  say  but 
thank  you  and  tell  you  that  if  there  is  ever  anything 
I  can  do  in  return  for  you  or  yours  you  have  only 
to  ask.  Neither  Elinor  nor  I  can  ever  repay  you. 
It  is  the  sort  of  thing  that  is — unpayable."  And 
again  the  captain  wiped  his  perspiring  brow.  He 
was  deenly  moved  and  emotion  went  hard  with  his 
Anglo-Saxon  temperament 


GEOFFREY  ANNERSLEY  ARRIVES          371 

"We  did  nothing  but  what  anybody  would  have 
been  glad  to  do.  If  there  are  any  thanks  coming 
they  are  chiefly  due  to  my  uncle  and  his  wife.  But 
we  don't  any  of  us  want  thanks.  We  love  Ruth. 
Please  forget  the  rest.  We  would  rather  you 
would." 

The  captain  nodded  quick  approval.  He  had  been 
told  Americans  were  boasters,  given  to  Big-Itis. 
But  either  people  got  the  Americans  wrong  or  these 
Holidays  were  an  exception  to  the  general  run.  He 
remembered  that  other  young  Holiday  whom  he 
had  met  rather  intimately  in  the  Canadian  camp. 
There-  had  been  no  side  there  either.  His  modesty 
had  been  one  of  his  chief  charms.  And  here  was  the 
brother  quietly  putting  aside  credit  for  a  course  of 
conduct  which  was  simply  immense  in  its  quixotic 
generosity.  He  liked  these  Holidays.  There  was 
something  rather  magnificent  about  their  simpli- 
city— something  almost  British  he  thought. 

"That  is  all  very  well,"  he  made  answer.  tfl 
won't  talk  about  it  if  you  prefer  but  you  will  pardon 
me  if  I  don't  forget  that  you  saved  my  cousin's  life 
and  looked  after  her  when  she  was  in  a  desperately 
unhappy  situation  and  her  own  people  seemed  to 
have  utterly  deserted  her.  And  I  consider  my  run- 
ning into  your  brother  at  camp  one  of  the  sheerest 
pieces  of  good  luck  I've  had  these  many  days  on  all 
counts." 

"How  did  it  happen?"  asked  Larry. 

"I  was  doing  some  recruiting  work  in  the  vicinity 
and  they  asked  me  to  say  a  few  words  to  the  lads  in 
training.  I  did.  Your  brother  was  there  and  lost 
no  time  in  getting  in  touch  with  me  when  he  heard 
who  I  was.  And  jolly  pleased  I  was  to  hear  his 
story— all  of  it." 

The  speaker  smiled  at  his  companion. 

"I  mean  that,  Larry  Holiday.  Elinor  and  I  were 
kid  sweethearts.  We  used  to  swear  we  were  going 


372  WILD  WINGS 


to  get  married  when  we  grew  up.  That  was  when 
she  was  eight  and  I  a  man  of  twelve  or  so.  I  gave 
her  the  locket  which  made  some  of  the  trouble  as  a 
sort  of  hostage  for  the  future.  We  called  her  Ruth 
in  those  days.  It  was  her  own  fancy  to  change  it  to 
Elinor  later.  She  thought  it  more  grown  up  and 
dignified  I  remember.  Then  I  went  back  to  Eng- 
land to  school.  I  didn't  see  her  again  until  we  were 
both  grown  up  and  then  I  married  her  best  friend 
with  her  blessing  and  approval.  But  that  is 
another  story.  Just  now  I  am  trying  to  tell  you 
that  I  am  ready  to  congratulate  my  cousin  with  all 
my  heart  if  it  happens  that  you  want  to  marry  her 
as  your  brother  seems  to  think." 

"There  is  no  doubt  about  what  I  want,"said  Larry 
grimly.  "Whether  it  is  what  she  wants  is  another 
matter.  We  haven't  been  exactly  in  a  position  to 
discuss  marriage." 

"I  understand.  I'm  beastly  sorry  to  have  been 
such  an  infernal  dog  in  the  manger  unwittingly. 
The  only  thing  I  can  do  to  make,  up  is  to  give  my 
blessing  and  wish  you  best  of  luck  in  your  wooing. 
Shall  we  shake  on  it,  Larry  Holiday,  and  on  the 
friendship  I  hope  you  and  I  are  going  to  have?" 
And  with  a  cordial  man  to  man  grip  there  was 
cemented  a  friendship  which  was  to  last  as  long  as 
they  both  lived. 

To  relate  briefly  the  links  of  the  story  some  of 
which  Larry  Holiday  now  heard  as  the  car  sped  over 
the  smooth,  frost  hardened  roads  which  the  open 
winter  had  left  unusually  snowless  and  clean. 
Geoffrey  Annersley  had  been  going  his  careless, 
happy  go  lucky  way  as  an  Oxford  undergraduate 
when  the  sudden  firing  of  a  far  off  shot  had  startled 
the  world  and  made 'war  the  one  inevitable  fact. 
The  young  man  had  enlisted  promptly  and  had  been 
in  practically  continuous  service  of  one  sort  or 
another  ever  since.  He  had  gone  through  desperate 


GEOFFREY  ANNERSLEY  ARRIVES         373 

fighting,  been  four  times  wounded,  and  was  now  at 
last  definitely  eliminated  from  active  service  by  a 
semi-paralyzed  leg,  the  result  of  his  last  visit  to 
"Blighty."  He  had  been  invalided  the  previous 
spring  and  had  been  sent  to  Australia  on  a  recruit- 
ing mission.  Here  he  had  renewed  his  acquaintance 
with  his  cousins  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  years 
and  promptly  fell  in  love  with  and  married  pretty 
Nancy  Hallinger,  his  cousin  Elinor's  chum. 

The  speedy  wooing  accomplished  as  well  as  the 
recruiting  job  which  was  dispatched  equally  expedi- 
tiously  and  thoroughly  Geoffrey  prepared  to  return 
to  France  to  get  in  some  more  good  work  against  the 
Huns  while  his  wife  planned  to  enter  Red  Cross 
service  as  a  nurse  for  which  she  had  been  in  train- 
ing for  some  time.  Roderick  had  entered  the 
Australian  air  service  and  was  already  in  Flanders 
where  he  had  the  reputation  of  being  one  of  the 
youngest  and  most  reckless  aviators  flying  which 
was  saying  considerable. 

It  was  imperative  that  some  arrangement  be  made 
for  Elinor  who  obviously  could  not  be  left  alone  in 
Sydney.  It  was  decided  in  family  conclave  that 
she  should  go  to  America  and  accept  the  often 
proffered  hospitality  of  her  aunt  for  a  time  at  least. 
A  cable  to  this  effect  had  been  dispatched  to  Mrs. 
Wright  which  as  later  appeared  never  reached  that 
lady  as  she  was  already  on  her  way  to  England  and 
died  there  shortly  after. 

Geoffrey  had  been  exceedingly  reluctant  to  have 
his  young  cousin  take  the  long  journey  alone  though 
she  had  laughed  at  his  fears  and  his  wife  had  abetted 
her  in  her  disregard  of  possible  disastrous  con- 
sequences, telling  him  that  women  no  longer 
required  wrapping  in  tissue  paper.  The  war  had 
changed  all  that. 

At  his  insistence  however  Ruth  had  finally 
consented  to  wear  her  mother's  wedding  ring  as  a 


374  WILD  WINGS 


sort  of  shadowy  protection.  He  had  an  idea  that 
the  small  gold  band,  being  presumptive  evidence  of 
an  existing  male  guardian  somewhere  in  the  offing 
might  serve  to  keep  away  the  ill  intentioned  or  over 
bold  from  his  lovely  little  heiress  cousin  about 
whom  he  worried  to  no  small  degree. 

They  had  gone  their  separate  ways,  he  to  the 
fierce  fighting  of  May,  nineteen  hundred  and  sixteen, 
she  to  her  long  journey  and  subsequent  strange 
adventures.     At  first  no  one  had  thought  it  un- 
natural   that    they    heard    nothing    from    Elinor. 
Letters  went  easily  astray  those  days.     Geoffrey 
was  weeks  without  news  even  from  his  wife  and 
poor  Roderick  was  by  this  time  beyond  communica- 
tion   of   any    kind,    his   name   labeled    with   that 
saddest  of  all  tags — missing.     It  was  not  until 
Geoffrey  was  out  of  commission  with  that  last  worst 
knock  out,  lying  insensible,  more  dead  than  alive 
in  a  hospital  "somewhere  in  France"  that  the  others 
began  to  realize  that  Elinor  had  vanished  utterly 
from  the  ken  of  all  -who  knew  her.     Some  one  who 
knew  her  by  sight  had  chanced  to  see  her  in  Cal- 
ifornia and  had  noted  the  wedding  ring,  hence  the 
"unsubstantiated  rumor"  of  her  marriage  in  San 
Francisco,  a  rumor  which  Nancy  half  frantic  over 
her  husband's  desperate  illness  was  the  only  person 
who  was  in  a  position  to  explain. 

When  Geoffrey  came  slowly  back  to  the  land  of 
the  living  it  was  to  learn  that  his  cousin  Roderick 
was  still  reported  missing  and  that  Elinor  was 
even  more  sadly  and  mysteriously  vanished  from 
the  face  of  the  earth  in  spite  of  all  effort  to  discover 
her  fate.  It  had  been  a  tragic  coming  back  for  the 
sick  man.  But  an  Englishman  is  hard  to  down 
and  gradually  he  got  back  health  and  a  degree  of 
hope  and  happiness.  There  would  be  no  more 
fighting  for  him  but  the  War  Department  assured 
him  there  were  plenty  of  other  ways  in  which  he 


GEOFFREY  ANNERSLEY  ARRIVES          375 

could  serve  the  cause  and  he  had  readily  placed 
himself  at  their  disposal  for  the  recruiting  work  in 
which  he  had  already  demonstrated  his  power  to 
success  in  Australia. 

Which  brings  us  to  the  Canadian  training  camp 
and  Ted  Holiday.  Captain  Annersley  had  been 
asked  as  he  had  told  Larry  to  speak  to  the  boys. 
He  had  done  so,  given  a  little  straight  talk  of  what 
lay  ahead  of  them  and  what  they  were  fighting  for, 
bade  them  get  in  a  few  extra  licks  for  him  since 
he  was  out  of  it  for  good,  done  for,  "crocked."  In 
conclusion  he  had  begged  them  give  the  Huns  hell. 
It  was*  all  he  asked  of  them  and  from  the  look  of 
them  he  jolly  well  knew  they  would  do  it. 

While  he  was  speaking  he  was  aware  all  the  time 
of  a  tall,  blue-eyed  youth  who  stood  leaning  against 
a  post  with  a  kind  of  nonchalant  grace.  The  boy's 
pose  had  been  indolent  but  his  eyes  had  been  wide 
awake,  earnest,  responsive.  Little  by  little  the 
captain  found  himself  talking  directly  to  the  lad. 
What  he  was  saying  might  be  over  the  heads  of 
some  of  them  but  not  this  chap's.  He  got  you  as 
the  Americans  say.  He  had  the  vision,  would  go 
wherever  the  speaker  could  take  him.  One  saw 
that. 

Afterwards  the  boy  had  sought  out  the  recruiter 
to  ask  if  by  any  chance  he  knew  a  girl  named  Elinor 
Ruth  Farringdon.  It  had  been  rather  a  tremen- 
dous moment  for  both  of  them.  Each  had  plenty  to 
say  that  the  other  wanted  to  hear.  But  the  full 
story  had  to  wait.  Corporal  Holiday  couldn't  run 
around  loose  even  talking  to  a  distinguished  British 
officer.  There  would  have  to  be  special  dispensa- 
tion for  that  and  special  dispensations  take  time 
in  an  army  world.  It  would  be  forthcoming  how- 
ever— to-morrow. 

In  the  meantime  Geoffrey  Annersley  had  heard 
enough  to  want  to  know  a  great  deal  more  and 


376  WILD  WINGS 


thought  he  might  as  well  make  some  inquiries  on 
his  own.  He  wanted  to  find  out  who  these  Amer- 
ican Holidays  were,  one  of  whom  had  apparently 
saved  his  cousin  Elinor's  life  and  all  of  whom  had, 
one  concluded,  been  amazingly  kind  to  her  though 
the  blue-eyed  boy  had  gracefully  made  light  of  that 
side  of  the  thing  in  the  brief  synopsis  of  events  he 
had  had  time  to  give  to  the  Englishman.  The 
captain  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  narrator  and  was 
not  averse  to  beginning  his  investigation  as  to  the 
Holiday  family  with  the  young  corporal  himself. 

Accordingly  he  tackled  the  boy's  commanding 
officer,  a  young  colonel  with  whom  he  chanced  to  be 
dining.  The  colonel  was  willing  to  talk  and 
Geoffrey  Annersley  discovered  that  young  Holiday 
was  rather  by  way  of  being  a  top-notcher.  He  had 
enlisted  as  a  private  only  a  short  time  ago  but  had 
been  shot  speediljy  into  his1  corporalslup.  Time 
pressed.  Officers  were  needed.  The  boy  was 
officer  stuff.  He  wouldn't  stay  a  corporal.  If  all 
went  well  he  would  go  over  as  a  sergeant. 

"We  put  him  through  though,  just  at  first  handled 
him  rather  nasty,"  the  colonel  admitted  with  a 
reminiscent  twinkle.  "We  do  put  the  Americans 
through  somehow,  though  it  isn't  that  wTe  have  any 
grudge  against  'em.  We  haven't.  We  like  'em — 
most  of  'em  and  we  have  to  admit  it's  rather  decent 
of  them  to  be  here  at  all  when  they  don't  have  to. 
All  the  same  we  give  'em  an  extra  twist  of  the 
discipline  crank  Dm  general  principles  just  to  see 
what  they  are  made  of.  We  found  out  mighty 
quick  with  this  youngster1.  He  took  it  all  and 
came  back  for  more  with  a  'sir,'  and  a  salute  and  a 
devilish  debonair,  you-can't-down-me  kind  of  grin 
that  would  have  disarmed  a  Turk." 

"He  doesn't  look  precisely  meek  to  me,"  Annersley 
had  said  remembering  the  answering  flash  he  had 
caught  in  those  blue  eyes  when  he  was  begging  the 


GEOFFREY  ANNERSLEY  ARRIVES          377 

boys  to  get  in  an  extra  lick  against  the  Huns  for 
his  sake. 

"Meek  nothing!  He  has  more  spirit  than  any 
cub  we've  had  to  get  into  shape  this  many  a  moon. 
It  isn't  that.  It  is  just  that  he  has  the  right  idea, 
had  it  from  the  start  however  he  came  by  it.  You 
know  what  it  is.,  captain.  It  is  obedience,  first,  last 
and  all  the  time,  the  will  to  be  willed.  A  soldier's 
job  is  to  do  what  he  is  told  whether  he  likes  it  or 
not,wh.ether  it  is  his  job  or  not,  whether  it  makes 
sense  or  not,  whether  he  gets  his  orders  from  a  man 
he  looks  up  to  and  respects  or  whether  he  gets  them 
from  a  low  down  cur  that  he  knows  perfectly  well 
isn't  fit  to  black  his  boots — none  of  that  makes  any 
difference.  It  is  up  to  him  to  do  what  he  is  told 
and  he  does  it  without  a  kick  if  he's  wise.  Young 
Holiday  is  wise.  He'd  had  his  medicine  sometime. 
One  sees  that.  I  don't  know  why  he  dropped  down 
on  us  like  a  shooting  star  the  way  he  did,  some 
college  fiasco  I  understand.  He  doesn't  talk  about 
himself  or  his  affairs  though  he  is  a  frank  outspoken 
youngster  in  other  ways.  But  there  was  a  look 
in  his  eyes  when  he  came  to  us  that  most  boys  of 
twenty  don't  have,  thank  the  Lord !  And  it  is  that 
look  or  what  is  behind  it  that  has  made  him  ace 
high  here.  That  boy  struck  bottom  somewhere  and 
struck  it  hard.  I'll  bet  my  best  belt  on  that." 

This  interested  Geoffrey  Annersley.  He  thought 
he  understood  what  the  colonel  meant.  There  was 
something  in  Ted  Holiday's  eyes  which  betrayed 
that  he  had  already  been  under  fire  somehow.  He 
had  seen  it  himself. 

"He  is  as  smart  as  they  make  'em,"  went  on  the 
colonel.  "Quick  as  a  flash  to  think  and  to  see  and 
to  act,  never  loses  his  head.  And  he's  a  wonder 
with  the  men,  jollies  'em  along  when  they  are  grous- 
ing or  homesick,  sets  'em  grinning  from  ear  to  ear 
when  they  are  down-hearted,  has  a  pat  on  the 


378  WILD  WINGS 


shoulder  for  this  one  and  a  jeer  for  that  one.  Old 
and  young  they  are  all  crazy  about  him.  They'd 
go  anywhere  he  led.  I  tell  you  he's  the  stuff  that 
will  take  'em  over  the  top  and  make  the.  boches  feel 
cold  in  the  pit  of  their  fat  tumtums  when  they  see 
him  coming.  Lord,  but  the  uselessne^s  of  it  though ! 
He'll  get  killed.  His  kind  always  does.  They  are 
always  in  front.  They  are  made  that  way.  Can't 
help  it.  Sometimes  they  do  come  through  though." 
The  colonel  flashed  a  quick  admiring  glance  at  his 
guest  who  had  also  been  the  kind  that  was  always 
in  front  and  yet  had  somehow  by  the  grace  of  some- 
thing come  through  in  spite  of  the  hazards  he  had 
run  and  the  deaths  he  had  all  but  died.  "You  are 
a  living  witness  to  that  little  fact,"  he  added. 
"Lord  love  us!  It's  all  in  the  game  anyway  and 
a  man  can  die  but  once." 

The  next  day  Corporal  Holiday  was  given  a  brief 
leave  of  absence  from  camp  at  the  request  of  the 
distinguished  British  officer.  Together  the  two 
went  over  the  strange  story  of  Elinor  Ruth 
Parringdon  and  the  Holidays'  connection  with  the 
later  chapters  thereof.  They  decided  not  to  write 
to  the  Hill  as  Annersley  was  planning  to  go  to 
Boston  next  day  whence  he  was  to  return  soon  to 
England  his  mission  accomplished,  and  could  easily 
stop  over  in  Dunbury  on  his  way  and  set  things 
right  in  person,  perhaps  even  by  his  personal 
presence  renew  Buth's  memory  of  things  she  had 
forgotten. 

All  through  the  pleasant  dinner  hour  Ted  kept 
wishing  he  could  get  the  captain  to  talking  about 
himself  and  his  battle  experiences  and  had  no  idea 
at  all  that  he  himself  was  being  shrewdly  studied 
as  they  talked.  "Good  breeding,  good  blood- 
quality,"  the  captain  summed  up.  "If  he  is  a  fair 
sample  of  young  America  then  young  America  is 
a  bit  of  all  right."  And  if  he  is  a  fair  sample  of 


GEOFFREY  ANNERSLEY  ARRIVES          379 

the  Holiday  family  then  Elinor  had  indeed  fallen 
into  the  best  of  hands.  Praise  be!  He  wondered 
more  than  once  what  the  young  corporal's  own 
story  was,  what  was  the  nature  of  the  fiasco  which 
had  driven  him  into  the  Canadian  training  camp 
and  what  was  behind  that  unboyish  look  which 
came  now  and  then  into  his  boyish  eyes. 

Later  during  the  intimate  evening  over  their 
cigarettes  both  had  their  'Curiosity  gratified. 
Captain  Annersley  was  moved  to  relate  some  of 
his  hair  breadth  escapes  and  thrilling  moments  to 
an  alerf  and  hero  worshiping  listener.  And  later 
still  Ted  too  waxed  autobiographical  in  response  to 
some  clever  baiting  of  which  he  was  entirely  un- 
aware though  he  did  wonder  afterward  how  he  had 
happened  to  tell  the  thing  he  had  kept  most  secret 
to  -an  entire  stranger.  It  was.  an  immense*  relief  to 
the  boy  to  talk  it  all  out.  It  would  never  haunt 
him  again  in  quite  the  same  way  now  he  had  once 
broken  the  barriers  of  his  reserve.  Geoffrey 
Annersley  served  his  purpose  for  Ted  as  well  as 
Larry  Holiday. 

Annersley  was  immensely  interested  in  the  confes- 
sion. It  matched  very  well  he  thought  with  that 
other  story  of  a  gallant  yaung  Holiday  to  whom  his 
cousin  Elinor  owed  so  much  in  more  than  one  way. 
They  were  a  queer  lot  these  Holidays.  They  had 
the  courage  of  their  convictions  and  tilted  at  wind- 
mills right  valiantly  it  seemed. 

And  then  he  fell  to  talking  straight  talk  to  Ted 
Holiday,  saying  things  that  only  a  man  who  has 
lived  deeply  can  say  with  any  effect.  He  urged  the 
boy  not  to  worry  about  that  smash  of  his.  It  was 
past  history,  over  and  done  with.  He  must  lo'ok 
ahead  not  back  and  be  thankful  he  had  come  out 
as  well  as  he  had. 

"There  is  just  -one  other  thing  I  want  to  say,"  he 
added.  "You  think  you  have  had  your  lesson. 


380  WILD  WINGS 


Maybe  it  is  enough  but  you'll  find  it  a  jolly  lot 
easier  to  slip  up  over  there  than  it  is  at  home.  You 
lose  your  sense  of  values  when  there  is  death  and 
damnation  going  all  around  you,  get  to  feeling  you 
have  a  right  to  take  anything  that  comes  your  way 
to  even  it  up.  Anyway  I  felt  that  way  until  I  met 
the  girl  I  wanted  to  marry.  Then  the  rest  looked 
almighty  different.  I've  given  Nancy  the  best  I 
had  to  give  but  it  wasn't  good  enough.  She  deserved 
more  than  I  could  give  her.  That  is  plain  speaking, 
Holiday.  Men  say  war  excuses  justify  anything. 
It  doesn't  do  anything  of  the  sort.  Some  day  you 
will  be  wanting  to  marry  a  girl  yourself.  Don't 
let  anything  happen  in  this  next  year  over  there 
that  you  will  regret  for  a  life-time.  That  is  a 
queer  preachment  and  I'm  a  jolly  rotten  preacher. 
B'ut  somehow  I  felt  I  had  to  say  it.  You  can  re- 
member it  or  forget  it  as  you  like." 

Ted  lit  another  cigarette,  looked  up  straight  into 
Geoffrey  Anner'sley's  war  lined  face. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.  "I  think  I'll  remember 
it.  Anyway  I  appreciate  your  saying  it  to  me  that 
way." 

The  subject  dropped  then,  went  back  to  war  and 
how  men  feel  on  the  edge  of  death,  of  the  unimpor- 
tance of  death  anyway. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

THE   PAST  AND   FUTURE  MEET 

LARRY  knocked  at  Ruth's  door.  It  opened  and 
a  wan  and  pathetically  drooping  little  figure  stood 
before  him.  Ever  since  she  had  been  awake  Ruth 
had  been  haunted  by  that  unwelcome  bit  of  memory 
illumination  which  had  come  the  night  before.  No 
wonder  she  drooped  and  scarcely  dared  to  lift  her 
eyes  to  her  lover's  face.  But  in  a  moment  he  had 
her  in  his  arms,  a  performance  which  banished  the 
droop  and  brought  a  lovely  color  back  into  the  pale 
cheeks. 

"Larry,  oh  Larry,  is  it  all  right?  I'm  not  his 
wife?  He  didn't  marry  me?" 

Larry  kissed  her. 

"He  didn't  marry  you.  Nobody's  going  to  marry 
you  but  me.  No,  I  didn't  mean  to  say  that  now. 
Forget  it,  sweetheart.  You  are  free,  and  if  you 
want  to  say  so  I'll  let  you  go.  If  you  don't  want — " 

"But  I  do  want,"  she  interrupted.  "I  want  Larry 
Holiday  and  he  is  all  I  want.  Why  won't  you  ever, 
ever  believe  I  love  you?  I  do,  more  than  anything 
in  the  world." 

"You  darling !  Will  you  marry  me?  I  shouldn't 
have  asked  you  that  other  time.  I  hadn't  the  right. 
But  I  have  now.  Will  you,  Ruth?  I  want  you  so. 
And  I've  waited  so  long." 

"Listen  to  me,  Larry  Holiday."  Ruth  held  up  a 
small  warning  forefinger.  "I'll  marry  you  if  you 
will  promise  never,  never"  to  be  cross  to  me  again. 
I  have  shed  quarts  of  tears  because  you  were  so 

381 


382  WILD  WINGS 


unkind  and — faithless.  I  ought  to  make  you  do 
some  terrible  penance  for  thinking  the  money  or 
anything  but  you  mattered  to  me.  Not  even  the 
wedding  ring  mattered.  I  told  you  so  but  still  you 
wouldn't  believe." 

Larry  shook  his  head  remorsefully. 

"Rub  it  in,  sweetheart,  if  you  must.  I  deserve 
it.  But  don't  you  think  I  have  had  purgatory 
enough  because  I  didn't  dare  believe  to  punish  me 
for  anything?  As  for  the  rest  I  know  I've  been 
behaving  like  a  brute.  I've  a  devil  of  a  disposition 
and  I've  been  half  crazy  anyway.  Not  that  that  is 
any  excuse.  But  I'll  behave  myself  in  the  future. 
Honest  I  will,  Kuthie.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  lift 
this  small  finger  of  yours — "  He  indicated  the 
digit  by  a  loverly  kiss  "and  I'll  be  as  meek  and 
lowly  as — as  an  ash  can,"  he  finished  prosaically. 

Ruth's  happy  laughter  rang  out  at  this  and  she 
put  up  her  lips  for  a  kiss. 

"I'll  remember,"  she  said.  "You're  not  a  brute, 
Larry.  You're  a  darling  and  I  love  you — oh 
immensely  and  I'll  marry  you  just  as  quick  as  ever 
I  can  and  we'll  be  so,  happy  you  won't  ever  re- 
member you  have  a  disposition." 

Another  interim  occurred,  an  interim  occupied  by 
things  which  are  nobody's  business  and  which  any- 
body who  has  ever  been  in  love  can  supply  ad  lib. 
by  exercise  of  memory  and  imagination.  Then 
hand  in  hand  the  two.  went  down  to  where  Geoffrey 
Annersley  waited  to  bring  back  the  past  to  Elinor 
Parringdon. 

"Does  he  know  me?"  queried  Ruth  as  they 
descended. 

"He  surely  does.  He  knows  all  there  is  to  know 
about  you,  Miss  Elinor  Ruth  Farringdon.  He 
ought  to.  He  is  your  cousin  and  he  married  your 
best  friend,  Nan— 

"Wait!"     cried    Ruth    excitedly,    "it's    coming 


THE  PAST  AND  FUTURE  MEET  383 

back.  He  married  Nancy  Hollinger  and  she  gave 
me  some  San  Francisco  addresses  of  some  friends 
of  hers  just  before  I  sailed.  They  were  in  that 
envelope.  I  threw  away  the  addresses  when  I  left 
San  Francisco  and  tucked  my  tickets  into  it.  Why, 
Larry,  I'm  remembering — really  remembering," 
she  stopped  short  on  the  stairs  to  exclaim  in  a 
startled  incredulous  tone. 

"Of  course  you  are  remembering,  sweetheart," 
echoed  Larry  happily.  "Come  on  down  and  re- 
member the  rest  with  Annersley's  help.  He  is 
some  cousin.  You'd  better  be  prepared  to  be  hor- 
ribly ptoud  of  him.  He  is  a  captain  and  wears 
all  kinds  of  honorable  and  distinguished  dingle 
dangles  and  decorations  as  well  as  a  romantic  limp 
and  a  magnificent  gash  on  his  cheek  which  he  evi- 
dently didn't  get  shaving." 

Larry  jested  because  he  knew  Kuth  was  growing 
nervous.  He  could  feel  her  tremble  against  his 
arm.  He  was  more  than  a  little  anxious  as  to  the 
outcome  of  the  thing  itself.  The  shock  and  the 
strain  of  meeting  Geoffrey  Annersley  were  going  to 
be  rather  an  ordeal  he  knew. 

They  entered  the  living  room  and  paused  on 
the  threshold,  Larry's  arm  still  around  the  girl. 
Doctor  Holiday  and  the  captain  both  rose.  The 
latter  limped  gallantly  toward  Ruth  who  stared 
at  him  an  instant  and  then  flung  herself  away  from 
Larry  into  the  other  man's  arms. 

"Geoff!     Geoff!"  she  cried. 

For  a  moment  nothing  more  was  said  then  Ruth 
drew  herself  away. 

"Geoffrey  Annersley,  why  did  you  ever,  ever 
make  me  wear  that  horrid  ring?"  she  demanded 
reproachfully.  "Larry  and  I  could  have  married 
each  other  months  ago  if  you  hadn't.  It  was  the 
silliest  idea  anyway  and  it's  all  your  fault — every- 
thing." 


384  WILD  WINGS 


He  laughed  at  that,  a  big  whole-souled  hearty 
laugh  that  came  from  the  depths  of  him. 

"That  sounds  natural,"  he  said.  "Every  scrape 
you  ever  enticed  me  into  as  a  kid  was  always  my 
fault  somehow.  Are  you  real,  Elinor?  I  can't 
help  thinking  I  am  seeing  a  ghost.  Do  you  really 
remember  me?"  anxiously. 

"Of  course  I  remember  you.  Listen,  Geoff. 
Listen  hard." 

And  unexpectedly  Ruth  pursed  her  pretty  lips 
and  whistled  a  merry,  lilting  bar  of  melody. 

"By  Jove!"  exulted  the  captain.  "That  does 
sound  like  old  times." 

"Don't  tell  me  I  dofl't  remember,"  she  flashed 
back  happy  and  excited  beyond  measure  at  play- 
ing this  new  remembering  game.  "That  was  our 
special  call,  yours  and  Rod's  and  mine.  Oh  Rod !" 
And  at  that  all  the  joy  went  out  of  the  eager, 
flushed  face.  She  went  back  into  her  cousin's 
arms  again,  sobbing  in  heart  breaking  fashion.  The 
turning  tide  of  memory  had  brought  back  wreck- 
age of  grief  as  well  as  joy.  In  Geoffrey  Anner- 
sley's  arms  Ruth  mourned  her  brother's  loss  for  the 
first  time.  Larry  sent  his  uncle  a  quick  look  and 
went  out  of  the  room.  The  older  doctor  followed. 
Ruth  and  her  cousin  were  left  alone  to  pick  up 
the  dropped  threads  of  the  past. 

They  all  met  again  at  luncheon  however,  Ruth 
rosy  cheeked,  excited  and  red-eyed  but  on  the 
whole  none  the  worse  for  her  journey  back  into 
the  land  of  forgotten  things.  As  Larry  had  hoped 
the  external  stimulus  of  actually  seeing  and  hear- 
ing somebody  out  of  that  other  life  was  enough  to 
start  the  train.  What  she  did  not  yet  remember 
Geoffrey  supplied  and  little  by  little  the  past  took 
on  shape  and  substance  and  Elinor  Ruth  Farring- 
don  became  once  more  a  normal  human  being 
with  a  past  as  well  as  a  present  which  was  dazz- 


THE  PAST  AND  FUTURE  MEET  385 

lingly  delightful,  save  for  the  one  dark  blur  of  her 
dear  Rod's  unknown  fate. 

In  the  course  of  the  conversation  at  table  Geof- 
frey addressed  his  cousin  as  Elinor  and  was 
promptly  informed  that  she  wasn't  Elinor  and  was 
Kuth  and  that  he  was  to  call  her  by  that  name 
or  run  the  risk  of  being  disapproved  of  very 
heartily. 

He  laughed,  amused  at  this. 

"Now  I  know  you  are  real,"  he  said.  "It  is  ex- 
actly the  tone  you  used  when  you  issued  the  con- 
trary command  and  by  Jove  almost  the  same  words 
except  for  the  reversed  titles.  'Don't  call  me  Ruth, 
Geoff/  "  he  mimicked.  "  *I  am  not  going  to  be 
Ruth  any  more.  I  am  going  to  be  Elinor.  It  is 
a  much  prettier  name.' ' 

"Well,  I  don't  think  so  now,"  retorted  Ruth. 
"I've  changed  my  mind  again.  I  think  Ruth  is  the 
nicest  name  there  is  because — well — "  She  blushed 
adorably  and  looked  across  the  table  at  the  young 
doctor,  "because  Larry  likes  it,"  she  completed  half 
defiantly. 

"Is  that  meant  to  be  an  official  publishing  of  the 
bans?"  teased  her  cousin  when  the  laugh  that 
Ruth's  naive  confession  had  raised  subsided  leav- 
ing Larry  as  well  as  Ruth  a  little  hot  of  cheek. 

"If  you  want  to  call  it  that,"  said  Ruth.  "Larry, 
I  think  you  might  say  something,  not  leave  me 
everything  to  do  myself.  Tell  them  we  are  engaged 
and  are  going  to  be  married — " 

"To-morrow,"  put  in  Larry  suddenly  pushing 
back  his  chair  and  going  over  to  stand  behind 
Ruth,  a  hand  on  either  shoulder,  facing  the  others 
gallantly  if  obviously  also  embarrassedly  over  her 
shyly  bent  blonde  head. 

The  blonde  head  went  up  at  that,  and  was 
shaken  very  decidedly. 

"No  indeed.     That  isn't  right  at  all,"  she  ob- 


386  WILD  WINGS 


jected.  "Don't  listen  to  him  anybody.  It  isn't 
going  to  be  tomorrow.  I've  got  to  have  a  wed- 
ding dress  and  it  takes  at  least  a  week  to  dream  a 
wedding  dress  when  it  is  the  only  time  you  ever 
intend  to  be  married.  I  have  all  the  other  things— 
everything  I  need  down  to  the  last  hair  pin  and 
powder  puff.  That's  why  I  went  to  Boston.  I 
knew  I  was  going  to  want  pretty  clothes  quick.  I 
told  Doctor  Holiday  so."  She  sent  a  charming, 
half  merry,  half  deprecating  smile  at  the  older  doc- 
tor who  smiled  back. 

"She  most  assuredly  did,"  he  corroborated.  "I 
never  suspected  it  was  part  of  a  deep  laid  plot 
however.  I  thought  it  was  just  femininity  cropping 
out  after  a  dull  season.  How  was  I  to  know  it 
was  because  you  were  planning  to  run  off  with 
my  assistant  that  you  wTanted  all  the  gay  plum- 
age?" he  teased. 

Kuth  made  a  dainty  little  grimace  at  that. 

"That  isn't  a  fair  way  to  put  it,"  she  declared. 
"If  I  had  been  planning  to  run  away  with  Larry  or 
he  with  me  we)  would  have  done  it  months  ago, 
plumage  or  no  plumage.  I  wanted  to  but  he 
wouldn't  anyway,"  she  confessed.  "I  like  this  way 
much,  much  better  though.  I  don't  want  to  be 
married  anywhere  except  right  here  in  the  heart 
of  the  House  on  the  Hill." 

She  slipped  out  of  her  chair  and  away  from 
Larry's  hands  at  that  and  went  over  to  where  Doc- 
tor Philip  sat. 

"May  we?"  she  asked  like  a  child  asking  per- 
mission to  run  out  and  play. 

"It  is  what  we  all  want  more  than  anything  in 
the  world,  dear  child,"  he  said.     "You  belong  with 
Larry  in  our  hearts  as  well  as  in  the  heart  of 
the  House.     You  know  that,  don't  you?" 

"I  know  you  are  the  dearest  man  that  ever  was, 
not  even  excepting  Larry.  And  I  am  going  to  kiss 


THE  PAST  AND  FUTURE  MEET  387 

you,  Uncle  Phil,  so  there.  I  can  call  you  that  now, 
can't  I?  I've  always  wanted  to."  And  fitting 
the  deed  to  the  word  Euth  bent  over  and  gave 
Doctor  Philip  a  fluttering  little  butterfly  kiss. 

They  rose  from  the  table  at  that  and  Ruth  was 
bidden  go  off  to  her  room  and  get  a  long  rest 
after  her  too  exciting  morning.  Larry  soberly  re- 
paired to  the  office  and  received  patients  and  pre- 
scribed gravely  for  them  just  as  if  his  inner  self 
were  not  executing  wild  fandangoes  of  joy.  Per- 
haps hi§  patients  did  get  a  few  waves  of  his  hap- 
piness however  for  there  was  not  one  of  them  who 
did  not  leave  the  office  with  greater  hope  and 
strength  and  courage  than  he  brought  there. 

"The  young  doctor's  getting  to  be  a  lot  like  his 
uncle,"  one  of  them  said  to  his  wife  later.  "Just 
the  very  touch  of  his  hand  made  me  feel  better 
today,  sort  of  toned  up  as  if  I  had  had  an  elec- 
trical treatment.  Queer  how  human  beings  can 
shoot  sparks  sometimes." 

Not  so  queer.  Larry  Holiday  had)  just  been 
himself  electrified  by  love  and  joy.  No  wonder  he 
had  new  power  that  day  and  was  a  better  healer 
than  he  had  ever  been  before, 

In  the  living  room  Doctor  Philip  and  Captain 
Annersley  held  converse.  The  captain  expressed 
his  opinion  that  Ruth  should  go  at  once  to  Aus- 
tralia, 

"If  her  bfother  is  dead  as  we  have  every  reason 
to  fear,  Elinor — Kuth — is  the  sole  owner  of  an 
immense  amount  of  property.  The  lawyers  are 
about  crazy  trying  to  keep  things  going  without 
either  Roderick  or  Ruth.  They  have  been  begging 
me  to  come  out  and  take  charge  of  things  for 
months  but  I  haven't  been  able  to  see  my  way 
clear  owing  to  one  thing  or  another.  Somebody 
will  have  to  go  at  once  and  of  course  it  should  be 
Ruth." 


388  WILD  WINGS 


"How  would  it  do  for  her  and  Laurence  both  to 
go?" 

"Magnificent.  I  was  hoping  you  would  think 
that  was  a  feasible  project.  They  will  be  glad  to 
have  a  man  to  represent  the  family.  My  cousin 
knows  nothing  about  the  business  end  of  the  thing. 
She  has  always  approached  it  exclusively  from  the 
spending  side.  Do  you  think  your  nephew  would 
care  to  settle  there?" 

"Possibly,"  said  the  Doctor.     "That  will  devel- 
op later.     They  will  have  to  work  that  out  for 
themselves.      I   am   rather   sorry   he  is  going  to 
.  marry  a  girl  with  so  much  money  but  I  suppose 
it  cannot  be  helped." 

"Some  people  wouldn't  look  at  it  that  way, 
'Doctor  Holiday,"  grinned  the  captain.  "But  I 
am  prepared  to  accept  the  fact  that  you  Holidays 
are  in  a  class  by  yourselves.  We  have  always  been 
afraid  that  Elinor  would  be  a  victim  of  some 
miserable  fortune  hunter.  I  can't  tell  you  what 
a  relief  it  is  to  have  her  marry  a  man  like  your 
nephew.  I  am  only  sorry  he  had  to  go  through 
such  a  punishing  period  of  suspense  waiting  for 
his  happiness.  Since  there  wasn't  really  the  slight- 
est obstacle  I  rather  wish  he  had  cut  his  scruples 
and  married  her  long  ago." 

"I  don't  agreed  with  you,  Captain  Annersley. 
They  are  neither  of  them  worse  off  for  waiting 
and  being  absolutely  sure  that  this  is  what  they 
both  want.  If  he  had  taken  the  risk  and  married 
her  when  he  knew  he  hadn't  the  full  right  to  do 
it  he  would  have  been  miserable  and  made  her  more 
so.  Larry  is  an  odd  chap.  There  is  a  morbid 
streak  in  him.  He  wouldn't  have  forgiven  him- 
self if  he  had  done  it.  And  losing  his  own  self- 
respect  would  have  been  the  worst  thing  that 
could  have  happened  to  him.  No  amount  of  ac- 
tual legality  could  have  made  up  for  starting  out 


THE  PAST  AND  FUTURE  MEET  389 

on  a  spiritually  illegal  basis.  We  Holidays  have 
to  keep  on  moderately  good  terms  with  ourselves 
to  be  happy,"  he  added  with  a  quiet  smile. 

"I  suppose  you  are  right,"  admitted  the  English- 
man. "Anyway  the  thing  is  straight  and  clear 
now.  He  has  earned  every  bit  of  happiness  that  is 
coming  to  him  and  I  hope  it  is  going  to  be  a  great 
deal.  My  own  sense  of  indebtness  for  all  you  Hol- 
idays have  done  fon  Ruth  is  enormous.  I  wish 
there  were  some  way  of  making  adequate  returns 
for  it  all.  But  it  is  too  big  to  be  repaid.  I  may 
be  able  to  keep  an  eye  on  your  other  nephew  when 
he  gets  over.  I  certainly  should  like  to.  I  don't 
know  wyhen  I've  taken  such  a  fancy  to  a  lad. 
My  word  he  is  a  ripping  sort." 

"Ted?"  Doctor  Holiday  smiled  a  little.  "Well, 
yes,  I  suppose  he  is  what  you  Britishers  call  rip- 
ping. It  has  'been  rather  ripping  in  another  sense 
being  his  guardian  sometimes." 

"I  judge  so  by  his  own  account  of  himself.  You 
mustn't  let  that  smash  of  his  worry  you.  He'll 
find  something  over  there  that  will  be  worth  a 
hundred  times  what  any  college  can  give  him, 
and  as  for  the  rest  half  the  lads  of  mettle  in  the 
world  come  to  earth  with  a  jolt  over  a  girl  sooner 
or  later  and  they  don't  all  rise  up  out  of  the  dust 
as  clean  as  he  did  by  a  long  shot."' 

"So  he  told  you  about  that  affair?  You  must 
have  gotten  under  his  skin  rather  surprisingly 
Ted  doesn't  talk  much  about  himself  and  I  fancy 
he  hasn't  talked  about  that  thing  at  all  to  any 
one.  It  went  deep." 

"I  know.  He  shows  that  in  a  -hundred  ways. 
But  it  hasn't  crushed  him  or  made  him  reckless. 
It  simply  steadied  him  and  I  infer  he  needed  some 
steadying*" 

Doctor  Holiday  nodded  assent  to  that  and  asked 
if  he  thought  the  boy  was  doing  well  up  there. 


390  WILD  WINGS 


"Not  a  doubt  of  it,"  said  the  Englishman  heartily. 
And  he  added  a  brief  synopsis  of  the  things  that 
the  colonel  had  said  in  regard  to  his  youngest  cor- 
poral. 

"That  is  rather  astonishing,"  remarked  Doctor 
Holiday.  "Obedience  hasn't  ever  been  one  of  Ted's 
strong  points.  In  fact  he  has  been  a  rebel  al- 
ways." 

"Most  boys  are  until  they  perceive  that  there  is 
sense  instead  of  tyranny  in  law.  Your  nephew  has 
had  that  knocked  into  him  rather  hard  and  he  is 
all  the  better  for  it  tough  as  it  was  in  the  process. 
He  is  making  good  up  there.  He  will  make  good 
over  seas.  He  is  a  born  leader — a  better  leader  of 
men  than  his  brother  would  be  though  maybe  Larry 
is  finer  stuff.  I  don't  know." 

"They  are  very  different  but  I  like  to  think  they 
are  both  rather  fine  stuff.  Maybe  that  is  my  par- 
tial view  but  I  am  a  bit  proud  of  them  both,  Ted 
as  well  as  Larry." 

"You  have  every  -reason,"  approved  the  captain 
heartily.  "I  have  seen  a  good  many  splendid  lads 
in  the  last  four  years  and  these  two  measure  up  in 
a  way  which  is  an  eye  opener  to  me  In  my  stupid 
insular  prejudice  maybe  I  had  fallen  to  thinking 
that  the  particular  quality  that  marks  them  both 
was  a  distinctly  British  affair.  Apparently  you 
can  breed  it  in  America  too.  I'm  glad  to  see  it  and 
to  own  it.  And  may  I  say  one  other  thing,  Doctor 
Holiday?  I  have  the  D.  S.  C.  and  a  lot  of  other 
junk  like  that  but  I'd  surrender  every  bit- of  it 
this  minute  gladly  if  I  thought  that  I  would  ever 
have  a  son  that  would  worship  me  the  way  those 
lads  of  yours  worship  you.  It  is  an  honor  any 
man  might  well  covet." 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

ALAN   MASSEY  LOSES  HIMSELF 

WHILE  Ruth  and  Larry  steered  their  storm  tossed 
craft  of  love  into  smooth  haven  at  last ;  while  Ted 
came  into  his  own  in  the  Canadian  training  camp 
and  Tony  played  Broadway  to  her  heart's  content, 
the  two  Masseys  dowTn  in  Mexico  drifted  into  a 
strange  pact  of  friendship. 

Had  there  been  no  other  ministrations  offered 
save  those  of  creature  comfort  alone  Dick  would 
have  had  cause  to  be  immensely  grateful  to  Alan 
Massey.  To  good  food,  good  nursing  and  material 
comfort  the  young  man  reacted  quickly  for  he  was  a 
healthy  young  animal  and  had  no  bad  habits  to 
militate  against  recovery. 

But  there  was  more  than  creature  comfort  in 
Alan's  service.  Without  the  latter's  presence  lone- 
liness, homesickness  and  heartache  would  have 
gnawed  at  the  younger  man  retarding  his  physi- 
cal gains.  With  Alan  Massey  life  even  on  a  sick 
bed  took  on  fascinating  colors  like  a  prism  in  sun- 
light. 

For  the  sick  lad's  delectation  Alan  spun  long 
thrilling  tales,  many  of  them  based  on  personal 
experience  in  his  wide  travels  in  many  lands.  He 
was  a  magnificent  raconteur  and  Dick  propped  up 
among  his  pillows  drank  it  all  in,  listening  like 
another  Desdemona  to  strange  moving  accidents 
of  fire  and  flood  which  his  scribbling  soul  recog- 
nized as  superb  copy. 

391 


392  WILD  WINGS 


Often  too  Alan  read  from  books,  called  in  the 
masters  of  the  pen  to  set  the  listener's  eager  mind 
atravel  through  wondrous,  unexplored  worlds. 
Best  of  all  perhaps  were  the  twilight  hours  when 
Alan  quoted  long  passages  of  poetry  from  memory, 
lending  to  the  magic  of  the  poet's  art  his  own 
magic  of  voice  and  intonation.  These  were  won- 
derful moments  to  Dick,  moments  he  was  never  to 
forget.  He  drank  deep  of  the  soul  vintage  which 
the  other  man  offered  him  out  of  the  abundance 
of  his  experience  as  a  life  long  pilgrim  in  the  ser- 
vice of  beauty. 

It  was  a  curious  relation — this  growing  friend- 
ship between  the  two  men.  In  some  respects  they 
were  as  master  and  pupil,  in  others  were  as  man 
and  man,  friend  and  friend,  almost  brother  and 
brother.  When  Alan  Massey  gave  at  all  he  gave 
magnificently  without  stint  or  reservation.  He 
did  now.  And  when  he  willed  to  conquer  he  sel- 
dom if  ever  failed.  He  did  not  now.  He  won, 
won  first  his  cousin's  liking,  respect,  and  gratitude 
and  finally  his  loyal  friendship  and  something  else 
that  was  akin  to  reverence. 

Tony  Holiday's  name  was  seldom  mentioned  be- 
tween the  two.  Perhaps  they  feard  that  with  the 
name  of  the  girl  they  both  loved  there  might 
return  also  the  old  antagonistic  forces  which  had 
already  wrought  too  much  havoc.  Both  sincerely 
desired  peace  and  amity  and  therefore  the  woman 
who  held  both  their  hearts  in  her  keeping  was  al- 
most banished  from  the  talk  of  the  sick  room  though 
she  was  far  from  forgotten'  by  either. 

So  things  went  on.  In  time  Dick  was  judged 
by  the  physician  well  enough  to  take  the  long  jour- 
ney back  to  New  York.  Alan  secured  the  tickets, 
made  all  the  arrangements,  permitting  Dick  not 
so  much  as  the  lifting  of.  a  finger  in  his  own  behalf. 
And  just  then  came  Tony  Holiday's  letter  to  Alan 


ALAN  MASSEY  LOSES  HIMSELF  393 

telling  him  she  was  his  whenever  he  wanted  her 
since  he  had  cleared  the  shield  forever  in  her  eyes 
by  what  he  had  done  for  Dick.  She  trusted  him, 
knew  he  would  not  ask  her  to  marry  him  unless  he 
was  quite  free  morally  and  every  other  way  to  ask 
her.  She  wanted  him,  could  not  be  surer  of  his 
love  or  her  own  if  she  waited  a  dozen  years.  He 
meant  more  to  her  than  her  work,  more  than  her 
beloved  freedom  more  even  than  Holiday  Hill  it- 
self although  she  felt  that  she  was  not  so  much 
deserting  the  Hill  as  bringing  Alan  to  it.  The 
others  would  learn  to  love  him  too.  They  must, 
because  she  loved  him  so  much."  But  even  if  they 
did  not  she  had  made  her  choice.  She  belonged  to 
him  first  of  all. 

"But  think,  dear,"  she  finished.  "Think  well 
before  you  take.  me.  Don't  come  to  me  at  all  unless 
you  can  come  free,  with  nothing  on  your  soul  that 
is  going  to  prevent  your  being  happy  with  me.  I 
shall  ask  no  questions  if  you  come.  I  trust  you 
to  decide  right  for  us  both  because  you  love  me  in 
the  high  way  as  well  as  all  the  other  ways." 

Alan  took  this  letter  of  Tony's  out  into  the  night, 
walked  with  it  through  flaming  valleys  of  hell. 
She  was  his.  Of  her  own  free  will  she  had  given 
herself  to  him,  placed  him  higher  in  her  heart  at 
last  than  even  her  sacred  Hill.  And  yet  after  all 
the  Hill  stood  between  them,  in  the  challenge  she 
flung  at  him.  She  was  his  to  take  if  he  could 
come  free.  She  left  the  decision  to  him.  She 
trusted  him. 

Good  God !  Why  should  he  hesitate  to  take  what 
she  was.  willing  to  give?  He  had  atoned,  saved  his 
cousin's  life,  lived  decently,  honorably  as  he  had 
promised,  kept  faith  with  Tony  herself  when  he 
might  perhaps  have  won  her  on  baser  terms  than 
he  had  made  himself  keep  to  because  he  loved  her 
as  she  said  "in  the  high  way  as  well  as  all  the  other 


394  WILD  WINGS 


ways."  He  would  contrive  some  way  of  giving 
his  cousin  back  the  money.  He  did  not  want  it. 
He  only  wanted  Tony  and  her  love.  Why  in  the 
name  of  all  the  devils  should  he  who  had  sinned  all 
his  life,  head  up  and  eyes  open,  balk  at  this  one 
sin,  the  negative  sin  of  mere  silence,  when  it  would 
give  him  what  he  wanted  more  than  all  the  world? 
What  was  he  afraid  of?  The  answer  he  would 
not  let  himself  discover.  He  was  afraid  of  Tony 
Holiday's  clear  eyes  but  he  was  more  afraid  of 
something  else — his  own  soul  which  somehow  Tony 
had  created  by  loving  and  believing  in  him. 

All  the  next  day,  the  day  before  they  were  to 
leave  on  the  northern  journey,  Alan  behaved  as  if 
all  the  devils  of  hell  which  he  had  invoked  were 
with  him.  The  old  mocking  bitterness  of  tongue 
was  back,  an  even  more  savage  light  than  Dick  re- 
membered that  night  of  their  quarrel  was  in  his 
green  eyes.  The  man  was  suddenly  acidulated  as 
if  he  had  over  night  suffered  a  chemical  transforma- 
tion which  had  affected  both  mind  and  body.  A 
wild  beast  tortured,  evil,  ready  to  pounce,  looked 
out  of  his  drawn,  white  face. 

Dick  wondered  greatly  what  had  caused  the 
strange  reaction  and  seeing  the  other  was  suffer- 
ing tremendously  for  some  reason  or  other  unex- 
plained and  perhaps  inexplicable  was  profoundly 
sorry.  His  friendship  for  the  man  who  had  saved 
his  life  was  altogether  too  strong  and  deep  to  be 
shaken  by  this  temporary  lapse  into  brutality  which 
he  had  known  all  along  was  there  although  held  mi- 
raculously in  abeyance  these  many  weeks.  The 
man  was  a  genius,  with  all  the  temperamental  fluc- 
tuations of  mood  which  are  comprehensible  and 
forgivable  in  a  genius.  Dick  did  not  begrudge 
the  other  any  relief  he  might  find  in  his  debauch 
of  ill  humor,  was  more  than  willing  he  should 
work  it  off  on  his  humble  self  if  it  could  do  any 


ALAN  MASSEY  LOSES  HIMSELF  395 

good  though  he  would  be  immensely  relieved  when 
the  old  friendly  Alan  came  back. 

Twilight  descended.  Dick  turned  from  the  mir- 
ror after  a  critical  survey  of  his  own  lean,  fever 
parched,  yellow  countenance. 

"Lord!  I  look  like  a  peanut,"  he  commenced 
disgustedly.  "I  say,  Massey,  when  we  get  back  to 
New  York  I  think  I  should  choke  anybody  if  I 
were  you  who  dared  to  say  we  looked  alike.  One 
must  draw  the  line  somewhere  at  what  constitutes 
a  permissible  insult."  He  grinned  whimsically  at 
his  own  expense,  turned  back  to  the  mirror.  "Upon 
my  word,  though,  I  believe  it  is  true.  We  do  look 
alike.  I  never  saw  it  until  this  minute.  Funny 
things — resemblances." 

"This  isn't  so  funny,"  drawled  Alan.  "We  had 
the  same  great  grandfather." 

Dick  whirled  about  staring  at  the  other  man  as 
if  he  thought  him  suddenly  gone  mad. 

"What!  What  do  you  know  about  my  great- 
grandfather? Do  you  know  wh'o  I  am?" 

"I  do.  You  are  John  Massey,  old  John's  grand- 
son, the  chap  I  told  you  once  was  dead  and  decently 
buried.  I  hoped  it  was  true  at  the  time  but  it 
wasn't  a  wreek  before  I  knew  it  was  a  lie.  I  found 
out  John  Massey  was  alive  and  that  he  was  going 
under  the  name  of  Dick  Carson.  Do  you  wonder 
I  hated  you?" 

Dick  sat  down,  his  face  white.  He  looked  and 
was-  utterly  dazed. 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  said.  "Do  you  mind  ex- 
plaining? It — it  is  a  little  hard  to  get  all  at 
once." 

And  then  Alan  Massey  told  the  story  that  no 
living  being  save  himself  knew.  He  spared  him- 
self nothing,  apologized  for  nothing,  expressed  no 
regret,  asked  for  no  palliation  of  judgment,  for- 
giveness or  even  understanding.  Quietly,  appar- 


396  WILD  WINGS 


ently  without  emotion,  he  gave  back  to  the  other 
man  the  birthright  he  had  robbed  him  of  by  his  sel- 
fish and  dishonorable  connivance  with  a  wicked  old 
man  now  beyond  the  power  of  any  vengeance  or 
penalty.  Dick  Carson  was  no  longer  nameless  but 
as  he  listened  tensely  to  his  cousin's  revelations  he 
almost  found  it  in  his  heart  to  wish  he- were.  It  was 
too  terrible  to  have  won  his  name  at  such  a  cost. 
As  he  listened,  watching  Alan's  eyes  burn  in  the 
dusk  in  strange  contrast  to  his  cool,  liquid,  studi- 
ously tranquil  voice,  Dick  remembered  a  line  Alan 
himself  had  read  him  only  the  other  day,  "Hell, 
the  shadow  of  a  soul  on  fire,"  the  Persian  phrased 
it.  Watching,  Dick  Carson  saw  before  him  a  sad- 
der thing,  a  soul  which  had  once  been  on  fire  and 
was  now  but  gray  ashes.  The  flame  had  blazed  up, 
scorched  and  blackened  its  path.  It  was  over  now, 
burnt  out.  At  thirty-three  Alan  Massey  was 
through,  had  lived  his  life,  had  given  up.  The 
younger  man  saw  this  with  a  pang  which  had 
no  reactive  thought  of  self,  only  compassion  for 
the  other. 

"That  is  all,  I  think,"  said  Alan  at  last.  "I  have 
all  the  proofs  of  your  indentity  with  me.  I  never 
could  destroy  them  somehow  though  I  have  meant 
to  over  and  over  again.  On  the  same  principle  I 
suppose  that  the  sinning  monk  sears  the  sign  of  the 
cross  on  his  breast  though  he  makes  no  outward 
confession  to  the  world  and  means  to  make  none. 
I  never  meant  to  make  mine.  I  don't  know  why  I 
am  doing  it  now.  Or  rather  I  do.  I  couldn't 
marry  Tony  with  this  thing  between  us.  I  tried  to 
think  I  could,  that  I'd  made  up  to  you  by  saving 
your  life,  that  I  was  free  to  take  my  happiness  with 
her  because  I  loved  her  and  she  loved  me.  And 
she  does  love  me.  She  wrote  me  yesterday  she 
would  marry  me  whenever  I  wished.  I  could  have 
had  her.  But  I  couldn't  take  her  that  way.  I 


ALAN  MASSEY  LOSES  HIMSELF  397 

couldn't  have  made  her  happy.  She  would  have 
read  the  thing  in  my  soul.  She  is  too  clean  and 
honest  and  true  herself  not  to  feel  the  presence  of 
the  other  thing  when  it  came  near  her.  I  have 
tried  to  tell  myself  love  was  enough,  that  it  would 
make  up  to  her  for  the  rest.  It  isn't  enough.  You 
can't  build  life  or  happiness  except  on  the  quarry 
stuff  they  keep  on  Holiday  Hill,  right,  honor,  de- 
cency. You  know  that.  Tony  forgave  my  past.  I 
believe  she  is  generous  enough  to  forgive  even  this 
and  go  on  with  me.  But  I  shan't  ask  her.  I  won't 
let  her.  I — I've  given  her  up  with  the  rest." 

The  speaker  came  over  to  where  Dick  sat,  silent, 
stunned. 

"Enough  of  that.  I  have  no  wish  to  appeal  to 
you  in  any  way.  The  next  move  is  yours.  You 
can  act  as  you  please.  You  can  brand  me  as  a 
criminal  if  you  choose.  It  is  what  I  am,  guilty  in 
the  eyes  of  the  law  as  well  as  in  my  own  eyes  and 
yours.  I  am  not  pleading  innocence.  I  am  plead- 
ing unqualified,  guilt.  Understand  that  clearly. 
I  knew  what  I  was  doing  when  I  did  it.  I  have 
known  ever  since.  I've  never  been  blind  to  the 
rottenness  of  the  thing.  At  first  I  did  it  for  the 
money  because  I  was  afraid  of  poverty  and  honest 
work.  And  then  I  went  on  with  it  for  Tony,  be- 
cause I  loved  her  and  wouldn't  give  her  up  to  you. 
Now  I've  given  up  the  last  ditch.  The  name  is 
yours  and  the  money  is  yours  and  if  you  can  win 
Tony  she  is  yours.  I'm  out  of  the  race  for  good 
and  all.  But  we  have  to  settle  just  how  the  thing 
is  going  to  be  done.  And  that  is  for  you  to  say." 

"I  wish  I  needn't  do  anything  about  it,"  said 
Dick  slowly  after  a  moment.  "I  don't  want  the 
money.  I  am  almost  afraid  of  it.  It  seems  accursed 
somehow  considering  what  it  did  to  you.  Even  the 
name  I  don't  seem  to  care  so  much  about  just  now 
thought  I  have  wanted  a  name  as  I  have  never 


398  WILD  WINGS 


wanted  anything  else  in  the  world  except  Tony.  It 
was  mostly  for  her  I  wanted  it.  See  here,  Alan, 
why  can't  wre  make  a  compromise?  You  say  Rob- 
erts wrote  two  letters  and  you  have  both.  Why 
can't  we  destroy  the  one  and  send  the  other  to  the 
lawyers,  the  one  that  lets  you  out?  It  is  nobody's 
business  but  ours.  We  can  say  that  the  letter  has 
just  fallen  into  your  hands  with  the  other  proof  that 
I  am  the  John  Massey  that  was  stolen.  That 
would  straighten  the  thing  out  for  you.  I've  no 
desire  to  brand  you  in  any  way.  Why  should  I  af- 
ter all  I  owe  you?  You  have  made  up  a  million 
times  by  saving  my  life  and  by  the  way  you  have 
given  the  thing  over  now.  Anyway  one  doesn't 
exact  payment  from  one's  friends.  And  you  are 
my  friend,  Alan.  You  offered  me  friendship.  I 
took  it — was  proud  to  take  it.  I  am  proud  now, 
prouder  than  ever." 

And  rising  Dick  Carson  who  was  no  longer  Dick 
Carson  but  .John  Massey  held  out  his  hand  to  the 
man  who  had  wronged  him  so  bitterly.  The  para- 
quet  in  the  corner  jibbered  harshly.  Thunder 
rumbled  heavily  outside.  An  eerily  vivid  flash  of 
lightning  dispelled  for  a  moment  the  gloom  of  the 
dusk  as  the  two  men  clasped  hands. 

"John  Massey!"  Alan's  voice  with  its  deep  cello 
quality  was  vibrant  with  emotion.  "You  don't 
know  what  that  means  to  me.  Men  have  called  me 
many  things  but  few  have  ever  called  me  friend 
except  in  lip  service  for  what  they  thought  they 
could  get  out  of  it.  And  from  you — well,  I  can  only 
say,  I  thank  you." 

"We  are  the  only  Masseys.  I  We  ought  to  stand 
together,"  said  Dick  simply. 

Alan  smiled  though  the  room  was  too  dark  for 
Dick  to  see. 

"We  can't  stand  together.     I  have  forfeited  the 


ALAN  MASSEY  LOSES  HIMSELF  399 

right.  You  chose  the  high  road  long  ago  and  I 
chose  the  other.  We  have  both  to  abide  by  our 
choices.  We  can't  change  those  things  at  will. 
Spare  me  the  public  revelation  if  you  care  to.  I 
shall  be  glad  for  Tony's  sake.  For  myself  it  doesn't 
matter  much.  I  don't  expect  to  cross  your  path  or 
hers  again.  I  am  going  to  lose  myself.  Maybe 
some  day  you  will  win  her.  She  will  be  worth  the 
winning.  But  don't  hurry  her  if  you  want  to 
win.  She  will  have  to  get  over  me  first  and  that 
will  take  time." 

"She  will  never  get  over  you,  Alan.  I  know 
her.  Things  go  deep  with  her.  They  do  with  all 
the  Holidays.  You  shan't  lose  yourself.  There 
is  no  need  of  it.  Tony  loves  you.  You  must 
stay  and  make  her  happy.  You  can  now  you  are 
free.  She  need  never  know  the  worst  of  this  any 
more  than  the  rest  of  the  world  need  know.  We 
can  divide  the  money.  It  is  the  only  way  I  am 
willing  to  have  any  of  it." 

Alan  shook  his  head. 

"We  can  divide  nothing,  not  the  money  and  not 
Tony's  love.  I  told  you  I  was  giving  it  all  up. 
You  cannot  stop  me.  No  man  has  ever  stopped  me 
from  doing  what  I  willed  to  do.  I  have  a  letter 
or  two  to  write  now  and  so  I'll  leave  you.  I  am 
glad  you  don't  hate  me,  John  Massey.  Shall  we 
shake  hands  once'  more  and  then — good-night?" 

Their  hands  met  again.  A  sharp  glare  of 
lightning  lit  the  room  with  ominous  brilliancy  for 
a  moment.  The  paraquet  screamed  raucously. 
And  then  the  door  closed  on  Alan  Massey. 

An  hour  later  a  servant  brought  word  to  Dick 
that  an  American  was  below  waiting  to  speak  to 
him.  He  descended  with  the  card  in  his  hand. 
The  name  was  unfamiliar,  Arthur  Hallock  of  Chi- 
cago, mining  engineer. 


400  WILD  WINGS 


The  stranger  stood  in  the  hall  waiting  while 
Dick  came  down  the  stairs.  He  was  obviously  ill 
at  ease. 

"I  am  Hallock,"  announced  the  visitor.  "You 
are  Richard  Carson?" 

Dick  nodded.  Already  the  name  was  beginning 
to  sound  strange  on  his  ears.  In  one  hour  he  had 
gotten  oddly  accustomed  to  knowing  that  he  was 
John  Massey.  And  no  longer  needed  Tony's  name, 
dear  as  it  was. 

"I  am  sorry  to  be  the  bearer  of  ill  news,  Mr. 
Carson,"  the  stranger  proceeded.  "You  have  a 
friend  named  Alan  Massey  living  here  with  you?" 

Again  Dick  nodded.  He  was  apprehensive  at 
the  mention  of  Alan's  name. 

"There  was  a  riot  down  there."  The  speaker 
pointed  down  the  street.  "A  fuss  over  an  Amer- 
ican flag  some  dirty  German  dog  had  spit  at.  It 
didn't  take  long  to  start  a  life  sized  row.  We  are 
all  spoiling  for  a  chance  to  stick  a  few  of  the 
pigs  ourselves  whether  we're  technically  at  war 
or  not.  A  lot  of  us  collected,  your  friend  Massey 
among  the  rest.  I  remember  particularly  when  he 
joined  the  mob  because  he  was  so  much  taller  than 
the  rest  of  us  and  came  strolling  in  as  if  he  was 
going  to  an  afternoon  tea  instead  of  getting  into 
an  international  mess  with  nearly  all  the  con- 
tracting parties  drunk  and  disorderly.  There  was 
a  good  deal  of  excitement  and  confusion.  I  don't 
believe  anybody  knows  just  what  happened  but  a 
drunken  Mexican  drew  a  dagger  somewhere  in 
the  mix  up  and  let  it  fly  indiscriminate  like.  We 
all  scattered  like  mischief  when  we  saw  the  thing 
flash.  Nobody  cares  much  for  that  kind  of  play- 
thing at  close  range.  But  Massey  didn't  move. 
It  got  him,  clean  in  the  heart.  He  couldn't  have 
suffered  a  second.  It  was  all  over  in  a  breath. 


ALAN  MASSEY  LOSES  HIMSELF  401 

He  fell  and  the  mob  made  itself  scarce.  Another 
fellow  and  I  were  the  first  to  get  to  him  but  there 
wasn't  anything  to  do  but  look  in  his  pockets  and 
find  out  who  he  was.  We  found  his  name  on  a 
card  with  this  address  and  your  name  scribbled  on 
it  in  pencil.  I  say,  Mr.  Carson,  I  am  horribly 
sorry/'  suddenly  perceiving  Dick's  white  face. 
"You  care  a  lot,  don't  you?" 

"I  care  a  lot,"  said  Dick  woodenly.  "He  was 
my  cousin  and — my  best  friend." 

"I  am  sorry,"  repeated  the  young  engineer. 
"Mr.  Carson,  there  is  something  else  I  feel  as  if 
I  had  to  say  though  I  shan't  say  it  to  any  one  else. 
Massey  might  have  dodged  with  the  rest  of  us. 
He  saw  it  coming  just  as  we  did.  He  waited 
for  it  and  I  saw  him  smile  as  it  came — a  queer 
smile  at  that.  Maybe  I'm  mistaken  but  I  have  a 
hunch  he  wanted  that  dagger  to  find  him.  That 
was  why  he  smiled." 

"I  think  you  are  entirely  right,  Mr.  Hallock," 
said  Dick.  "I  haven't  any  doubt  but  that  was  why 
he  smiled.  He  would  smile  just  that  way.  Where 
— where  is  he?"  Dick  brushed  his  hands  across 
his  eyes  as  he  asked  the  question.  He  had  never 
felt  so  desolate,  so  utterly  alone  in  his  life. 

"They  are  bringing  him  here.  Shall  I  stay?  Can 
I  help  anyway?" 

Dick  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"Thank  you.  I  don't  think  there  is  anything 
any  one  can  do.  I — I  wish  there  was." 

A  little  later  Alan  Massey's  dead  body  lay  in 
austere  dignity  in  the  house  in  which  he  had 
saved  his  cousin's  life  and  given  him  back  his 
name  and  fortune  together  with  the  right  to  win 
the  girl  he  himself  had  loved  so  well.  The  smile 
was  still  on  his  face  and  a  strange  serenity  of  ex- 
pression was  there  too.  He  slept  well  at  last.  He 


402  WILD  WINGS 


had  lost  himself  as  he  had  proclaimed  his  intent 
to  do  and  in  losing  had  found  himself.  One  could 
not  look  upon  that  calm  white  sculptured  face  with- 
out feeling  that.  Alan  Massey  had  died  a  victor 
undaunted,  a  master  of  fate  to  the  end. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

THE  SONG  IN  THE  NIGHT 

TONY  HOLIDAY  sat  in  the  dressing  room  waiting 
her  cue  to  go  on  the  stage;.  It  was  only  a  re- 
hearsal however.-  Miss  Clay  was  back  now  and 
Tony  was  once  more  the  humble  understudy  though 
with  a  heart  full  of  happy  knowledge  of  what  it 
is  like  to  be  a  real  actress-  with  a  doting  public 
at  her  feet. 

While  she  waited  she  picked  up  a  newspaper 
and  carelessly  scanned  its  pages.  Suddenly  to 
the  amazement  and  consternation  of  the  other  girl 
who  was  dressing  in  the  same  room  she  uttered 
a  sharp  little  cry  and  for  the  first  time  in  her 
healthy  young  life  slid  to  the  floor  in  a  merci- 
ful faint.  Her  frightened  companion  called  for 
help  instantly  and  it  was  only  a  moment  before 
Tony's  brown  eyes  opened  and  she  pulled  herself 
up  from  the  couch  where  they  had  laid  her.  But 
she  would  not  speak  or  tell  them  what  had  hap- 
pened and  it  was  only  when  they  had  gotten  her 
off  in  a  cab  with  a  motherly,  big  hearted  woman 
who  played  shrew's  and  villainess'  parts  always  on 
the  stage  but  was  the  one  person  of  the  whole  cast 
to  whom  every  one  turned  in  time  of  trouble  that 
the  rest  searched  the  paper  for  the  clew  to  the 
thing  which  had  made  Tony  look  like  death  itself. 
It  was  not  far  ta  seek.  Tony  looked  like  death 
because  Alan  Massey  was  dead. 

They  all  knew  Alan  Massey  and  knew  that  he 
and  Tony  Holiday  were  intimate  friends,  per- 

403 


404  WILD  WINGS 


haps  even  betrothed.  More  than  one  of  them  had 
seen  and  remembered  how  he  had  kissed  her  before 
them  all  on  the  night  of  Tony's  first  Broadway 
triumph  and  some  of  them  had  wondered  why  he 
had  not  been  seen  since  with  her.  So  he  had  been 
in  Mexico  and  now  he  was  dead,  his  heart  pierced 
by  a  Mexican  dagger.  And  Tony — Tony  of  the 
gay  tongue  and  the  quick  laughter — had  the  dag- 
ger gone  into  her  heart  too?  It  looked  so.  The 
"End  of  the  Rainbow"  cast  felt  very  sad  and  sober 
that  day.  They  loved  Tony  and  just  now  she  was 
not  an  actress  to  them  but  a  girl  who  had  loved 
a  man,  a  man  who  was  dead. 

Jean  Lambert  telegraphed  at  once  for  Doctor 
Holiday  to  come  to  Tony  who  was  in  a  bad  way. 
She  wouldn't  talk.  She  wouldn't  eat.  She  did  not 
sleep.  She  did  not  cry.  Jean  thought  if  she  cried 
her  grief  would  not  have  been  so  pitiful  to  behold. 
It  was  the  stony,  white1  silence  of  her  that  was  in- 
tolerable to  witness. 

In  her  uncle's  arms  Tony's  terrible  calm  gave 
way  and  she  sobbed  herself  to  utter  weariness  and 
finally  to  sleep.  But  even  to  him  she  would  not 
talk  much  about  Alan.  He  had  not  known  Alan. 
He  had  never  understood — never  would  under- 
stand now  how  wonderful,  how  lovable,  how  splen- 
did her  lover  had  been.  For  several  days  she  was 
kept  in  bed  and  the  doctor  hardly  left  her.  It  was 
a  hard  time  for  him  as  well  as  his  stricken  niece. 
Even  their  love  for  each  other  did  not  serve  to 
lighten  the  pain  to  any  great  extent.  It  was  not 
the  same  sorrow  they  had.  Doctor  Holiday  was 
suffering  because  his  little  girl  suffered.  Tony  was 
suffering  because  s"he  loved  Alan  Massey  who  would 
never  come  to  her  again.  Neither  could  entirely 
share  the  grief  of  the  other.  Alan  Massey  was 
between  them  still. 

Finally  Dick  came  and  was  able  to  give  what 


THE  SONG  IN  THE  NIGHT  405 

Doctor  Philip  could  not.  He  could  sing  Alan's 
praises,  tell  her  how  wonderful  he  had  been,  how 
generous  and  kind.  He  could  share  her  grief  as 
no  one  else  could  because  he  had  learned  to  love 
Alan  Massey  almost  as  well  as  she  did  herself. 

Dick  talked  freely  of  Alan,  told  her  of  the  strange 
discovery  which  they  had  made  that  he  and  Alan 
were  cousins  and  that  he  himself  was  John  Mas- 
sey, the  kidnapped  baby  whom  he  had  been  so 
sorry  for  when  he  had  looked  up  the  Massey  story 
at  the  time  of  the  old  man's  death.  Dick  was 
not  an  apt  liar  but  he  lied  gallantly  now  for  Alan's 
sake  and  for  Tony's.  He  told  her  that  it  was 
only  since  Alan  had  been  in  Mexico  that  he  had 
known  who  his  cousin  was  and  had  immediately 
possessed  the  other  of  the  facts  and  turned  over 
to  him  the  proofs  of  his  identity  as  John  Massey. 

It  was  a  good  lie,  well  conceived  and  well  de- 
livered but  the  liar  had  not  reckoned  on  that  fatal 
Holiday  gift  of  intuition.  Tony  listened  to  the 
story,  shut  her  eyes  and  thought  hard  for  a  mom- 
ent. Then  she  opened  her  eyes  again  and  looked 
straight  at  Dick. 

"That  is  not  the  truth,"  she  said.  "Alan  knew 
before  he  went  to  Mexico.  He  knew  long  before. 
That  was  the  other  ghost — the  one  he  could  not 
lay.  Don't  lie  to  me.  I  know." 

And  then  yielding  to  her  command  Dick  began 
again  and  told  her  the  truth,  serving  Alan's  mem- 
ory well  by  the  relation.  One  thing  only  he  kept 
back.  After  all  he  had  no  proof  that  the  young 
engineer  had  been  right  in  his  conjecture  that  Alan 
had  wanted  the  dagger  to  find  him.  There  was  no 
need  of  hurting  Tony  with  that. 

"Dick — I  can't  call  you  John  yet.  I  can't  even 
think  about  you  to-night  though  I  am  so  thank- 
ful to  have  you  back  safe  and  well.  I  can't  be  glad 
yet  for  you.  I  can't  remember  any  one  but  Alan., 


406  WILD  WINGS 


You  will  forgive  me,  I  know.  But  tell  me.  It 
was  a  terrible  thing  he  did  to  you.  Do  you  for- 
give him  really?"  The  girl's  deep  shadowed  eyes 
searched  the  young  man's  face,  challenging  him 
to  speak  the  truth  and  only  that. 

He  met  the  challenge  willingly.  He  had  noth- 
ing to  conceal  here.  Tony  might  read  him  through 
and  through  and  she  would  find  in  him  neither 
hate  nor  rancor,  nor  condemnation. 

"Of  course  I  forgive  him,  Tony.  He  did  a  ter- 
rible thing  to  me  you  say.  He  did  a  much  more 
terrible  thing  to  himself.  And  he  made  up  for 
everything  over  and  over  by  what  he  did  for 
me  in  Mexico.  He  might  have  let  me  die.  I  should 
have  died  if  he  had  not  come.  There  is  no  doubt 
in  the  world  of  that.  He  could  not  have  done  more 
if  he  had  been  my  own  brother.  He  meant  me  to 
like  him.  He  did  more.  He  made  ,me  love  him. 
He  was  my  friend.  We  parted  as  friends  with 
a  handshake  which  was  his  good-by  though  I  didn't 
know  it." 

It  was  a  fatal  speech.  Too  late  Dick  realized 
it  as  he  saw  Tony's  face. 

"Dick,  he  meant  to  let  himself  get  killed.  I've 
thought  so  all  along  and  now  I  know  you  think 
so  too." 

"I  didn't  mean  to  let  that  out.  Maybe  I  am 
mistaken.  We  shall  never  know.  But  I  believe 
he  was  not  sorry  to  let  the  dagger  get  him.  He 
had  given  up  everything  else.  It  wasn't  so  hard 
for  him  to  give  up  the  one  thing  more — the  thing 
he  didn't  want  anyway — life.  Life  wasn't  much 
to  him  after  he  gave  you  up,  Tony.  His  love  was 
the  biggest  thing  about  him.  I  love  you  myself 
but  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  that  his  love  was  a 
bigger  thing  than  mine  every  way,  finer,  more 
magnificent,  the  love  of  a  genius  whereas  mine  is 


THE  SONG  IN  THE  NIGHT  407 

just  the  love  of  an  every  day  man.     It  was  love 
that  saved  him." 

"Dick,  do  you  believe  that  the  real  Alan  is 
dust — nothing  but  dust  down  in  a  grave?"  de- 
manded Tony  suddenly. 

"No,  Tony,  I  don't.  I  can't.  The  essence  of 
what  was  best  in  him  is  alive  somewhere.  I  know 
it.  It  must  be.  His  love  for  you — for  all  beauty — 
they  couldn't  die,  dear.  They  were  big  enough 
to  be  immortal." 

"And  his  dancing,"  sighed  Tony.  "His  dancing 
couldn't  die.  It  had  a  soul." 

If  she  had  not  been  sure  already  that  Alan  had 
meant  to  go  out  of  her  life  even  if  he  had  not  meant 
to  go  to  his  death  when  he  left  New  York  she  would 
have  been  convinced  a  little  later.  Alan^s  Japanese 
servant  brought  two  gifts  to  her  from  his  honor- 
able master  according  to  his  honorable  master's 
orders  should  he  not  return  from  his  journey.  His 
honorable  master  being  unfortunately  dead  his  un- 
worthy servant  laid  the  gifts  at  Mees  Holiday's 
honorable  feet.  Whereupon  the  bearer  had  de- 
parted as  quietly  as  death  itself  might  come. 

One  of  the  gifts  was  a  picture,  a  painting  which 
Tony  had  seen,  and  which  was  she  thought 
the  most  beautiful  of  all  his  beautiful  creations. 
Its  sheer  loveliness  would  have  hurt  her  even  if 
it  had  had  no  other  significance  and  it  did  have 
a  very  real  message. 

At  first  sight  the  whole  scene  seemed  enveloped 
in  translucent,  silver  mist.  As  one  looked  more 
closely  however  there  was  revealed  the  figure  of  a 
man,  black  clad  in  pilgrim  guise,  kneeling  on  the 
verge  of  a  precipitous  cliff  which  rose  out  of  a 
seemingly  bottomless  abyss  of  terrific  blackness. 
Though  in  posture  of  prayer  the  pilgrim's  head 
was  lifted  and  his  face  wore  an  expression  of  rapt 


408  WILD  WINGS 


adoration.  Above  a  film  of  fog  in  the  heavens 
stretched  a  clear  space  of  deep  blue  black  sky  in 
which  hung  a  single  luminous  star.  From  the 
star  a  line  of  golden  light  of  unearthly  radiance 
descended  and  finding1  its  way  to  the  uplifted 
transfigured  face  of  the  kneeling  pilgrim  ended 
there. 

Tony  Holiday  understood,  got  the  message  as 
clearly  as  if  Alan  himself  stood  beside  her  to  in- 
terpret it.  She  knew  that  he  was  telling  her 
through  the  picture  that  she  had  saved  his  soul,  kept 
him  out  of  the  abyss,  that  to  the  end  she  was 
what  he  had  so  often  called  her — his  star. 

With  tear  blinded  eyes  she  turned  from  the  can- 
vas to  the  little  silver  box  which  the  servant  had 
placed  in  her  hands  together  with  a  sealed  en- 
velope. In  the  box  was  a  gorgeous,  unset  ruby,  the 
gem  of  Alan's  collection  as  Tony  well  knew  having 
worshiped  often  at  its  shrine.  It  lay  there  now 
against  the  austere  purity  of  its  white  satin  back- 
ground— the  symbol  of  imperishable  passion. 

Reverently  Tony  closed  the  little  box  and  opened 
the  sealed  envelope  dreading  yet  longing  to  know 
its  contents.  Alan  had  sent  her  no  word  of  fare- 
well, had  not  written  to  her  that  night  before  he 
went  out  into  the  storm  to  meet  his  death,  had 
made  no  response  to  the  letter  she  herself  had 
written  offering  herself  and  her  love  and  faith  for 
his  taking.  At  first  these  things  had  hurt  her. 
But  these  gifts  of  his  were  beginning  to  make 
her  understand  his  silence.  Selfish  and  spectac- 
ular all  his  life  at  his  death  Alan  Massey  had  been 
surpassingly  generous  and  simple.  He  had  chosen 
to  bequeath  his  love  to  her  not  as  an  obsession  and 
a  bondage  but  as  an  elemental  thing  like  light 
and  air. 

The  message  in  the  envelope  was  in  its  way  as 
impersonal  as  the  ruby  had -been  but  Tony  found 


THE  SONG  IN  THE  NIGHT  409 

it  more  hauntingly  personal  than  she  had  ever 
found  his  most  impassioned  love  letter.  Once  more 
the  words  were  couched  in  the  symbol  tongue 
of  the  poet  in  India — in  only  two  sentences,  but 
sentences  so  poignant  that  they  stamped  them- 
selves forever  on  Tony  Holiday's  mind  as  they 
stood  out  from  the  paper  in  Alan's  beautiful,  strik- 
ing handwriting. 

"When  the  lighted  lamp  is  brought  into  the  room 

I  shall  go. 
And  then  perhaps  you  will  listen  to  the  night,  and 

hear  my  song  when  I  am  silent. ' ' 

The  lines  were  dated  on  that  unforgettable  night 
when  Tony  had  played  Broadway  and  danced  her 
last  dance  with  her  royal  lover.  So  he  had  known 
even  then  that  he  was  giving  her  up.  Realizing  this 
Tony  realized  as  she  never  had  before  the  high 
quality  of  his  love.  She  could  guess  a  little  of 
what  that  night  had  meant  to  him,  how  passion- 
ately he  must  have  desired  to  win  through  to  the 
full  fruition  of  his  love  before  he  gave  her  up  for 
all  the  rest  of  time.  And  she  herself  had  been  mad 
that  night  Tony  remembered.  Ah  well!  He  had 
been  strong  for  them  both.  And  now  their  love 
would  always  stay  upon  the  high  levels,  never 
descend  to  the  ways  of  earth.  There  would  never 
be  anything  to  regret,  though  Tony  loving  her 
lover's  memory  as  she  did  that  moment  was  not  so 
sure  but  she  regretted  that  most  of  all. 

Yet  tragic  as  Alan's  death  was  and  bitterly  and 
sincerely  as  she  mourned  his  4oss  Tony  could 
see  that  he  had  after  all  chosen  the  happiest  way 
out  for  himself  as  well  as  for  her  and  his  cousin. 
It  was  not  hard  to  forgive  a  dead  lover  with  a 
generous  act  of  renunciation  his  last  deed.  It 
would  have  been  far  less  easy  to  forgive  a  living 


410  WILD  WINGS 


lover  with  such  a  stain  upon  his  life.  Even  though 
he  tried  to  wash  it  away  by  his  surrender  and  she 
by  her  forgiveness  the  stain  would  have  remained 
ineradicable.  There  would  always  have  been  a 
barrier  between  them  for-  all  his  effort  and  her 
own. 

And  his  love  would  ill  have  borne  denial  or 
frustration.  Without  her  he  would  have  gone 
down  into-  dark  pits  if  he  had  gone  on  living. 
Perhaps  he  had  known  and  feared  this  himself, 
willing  to  prevent  it  at  any  cost.  Perhaps  he  had 
known  that  so  long  as  he  lived  she,  Tony,  would 
never  have  been  entirely  her  own  again.  His 
bondage  would  have  been  upon  her  even  if  he 
never  saw  her  again.  Perhaps  he  had  elected  death 
most  of  all  for  this  reason,  had  loved  her  well 
enough  to  set  her  free.  He  had  told  her-  once 
that  love  was  twofold,  a  force  of  destruction  and 
damnation  but  also  a  force  of  purification  and  sal- 
vation. Alan  had  loved  her  greatly,  perhaps  in 
the  end  his  love  had  taken  him  in  his  own  words 
"to  the  gate  of  Heaven."  Tony  did  not  know  but 
she  thought  if  there  really  was  a  God  he  would 
understand  and  forgive  the  soul  of  Alan  Massey 
for  that  last  splendid  sacrifice  of  his  in  the  name 
of  love. 

And  whatever  happened  Tony  Holiday  knew  that 
she  would  bear  forever  the  mark  of  Alan  Massey's 
stormy,  strange,  and  in  the  end  all-beautiful  love. 
Perhaps  some  day  the  lighted  lamp  might  be 
bnought  in.  She  did  not  know,  would  not  attempt 
to  prophesy  about  that.  She  did  not  know  that 
she  would  always  listen  to  the  night  for  Alan  Mas- 
sey's sake  and  hear  his  song  though  he  was  silent 
forever. 

The  next  day  Richard  Carson  officially  disap- 
peared from  the  world  and  John  Massey  appeared 
in  his  place.  The  papers  made-  rather  a  striking 


THE  SONG  IN  THE  NIGHT  411 

story  of  his  romantic  history  and  its  startling  de- 
nouement which  had  come  they  said  through  the 
death  bed  confessions  of  the  man  Roberts  which 
had  only  just  reached  the  older  Massey's  hands, 
strangely  enough  on  the  eve  of  his  own  tragic 
death,  which  was  again  related  to  make  the  tale 
a  little  more  of  a  thriller.  That  was  all  the  world 
knew,  was  ever  to  know  for  the  Holidays  and 
John  Massey  kept  the  dead  man's  secret  well. 

And  the  grass  grew  green  on  Alan  Massey's 
grave.  The  sun  and  dew  and  rain  laid  tender 
fingers  upon  it  and  great  crimson  and  gold  hearted 
roses  strewed  their  fragrant  petals  upon  it  year 
by  year.  The  stars  he  had  loved  so  well  shone  down 
upon  the  lonely  spot  where  his  body  slept  quiet  at 
last  after  the  torment  of  his  brief  and  stormy  life. 
But  otherwise,  as  John  Massey  and  Tony  Holi- 
day believed,  his  undefeated  spirit  fared  on  splen- 
didly in  its  divine  quest  of  beauty. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

IN  WHICH  THE  TALE  ENDS  IN  THE  HOUSE  ON  THE 
HILL 

THE  winter  had  at  last  decided  to  recapture  its 
forsaken  role  of  the  Snow  King.  For  two  days  and 
as  many  nights  the  air  had  been  one  swirl  of  snow 
which  shut  out  earth  and  sky.  But  on  the  third 
morning  the  Hill  woke  to  a  dazzling  world  of  cloud- 
less blue  and  trackless  white.  A  resplendent  bride- 
like  day  it  was  and  fitly  so  for  before  sundown  the 
old  House  on  the  Hill  was.  to  know  another  bride. 
Elinor  Ruth  Farringdon's  affairs  required  her 
immediate  attention  in  Australia  and  she  was  leav- 
ing to-night  for  that  far  away  island  which  was 
again  now  dear  to  her  heart  as  the  home  of  her 
happy  childhood,  the  memory  of  which  had  now  all 
returned  after  months  of  strange  obliteration. 
But  she  would  not  go  as  Elinor  Ruth  Farringdon. 
That  name  was  to  be  shed  as  absolutely  as  her  recol- 
le'ction  of  it  had  once  been  shed.  She  would  go  as 
Mrs.  Laurence  Holiday  with  a  real  wedding  ring 
all  her  own  and  a  real  husband  also  all  her  own 
by  her  side. 

There  wrere  to  be  no  guests  outside  the  family 
except  for  the  Lamberts,  Carlotta  and  Dick- 
John  Massey,  as  they  were  now  trying  to  learn  to 
call  him.  The  wedding  was  to  be  very  quiet  not 
only  because  of  Granny  but  because  they  were  all 
very  pitiful  of  Tony's  still  fresh  grief,  the  more  so 
because  she  bore  it  so  bravely  and  quietly,  anxious 
lest  she  cast  any  shadow  upon  the  happiness  of  the 

412 


TALE  ENDS  IN  THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL     413 

others,  especially  that  of  Larry  and  Ruth.  In  any 
case  a  quiet  wedding  would  have  been  the  choice  of 
the  two  who  were  most  concerned.  They  wanted 
only  their  near  and  dear  about  them  when  they 
took  upon  themselves  the  rites  which  were  to  unite 
them  for  the  rest  of  their  two  lives. 

Aside  from  Tony's  sorrow  the  only  two  regrets 
which  marred  the  household  joy  that  bride  white 
day  were  Ted's  absence  and  imminent  departure 
for  France  and  that  other  even  soberer  remem- 
brance of  that  other  gallant  young  soldier,  Kuth's 
brother  Roderick  of  whom  no  news  had  come, 
though  Ruth  insisted  that  Rod  wasn't  dead,  that  he 
would  came  back  just  as  her  vivid  memory  of  him 
had  returned. 

And  it  happened  that  her  faith  was  rewarded 
and  on  the  very  day  of  days  when  one  drop  more 
of  happiness  made  the  cup  fairly  spill  over.  Larry 
was  summoned  to  the  telephone  just  as  he  had  been 
once  before  on  a  certain  memorable  occasion  to  be 
told  that  a  cabled  message  awaited  him.  The  mes- 
sage was  from  Geoffrey  Annersley  and  bore  besides 
his  love. and  congratulations  the  wonderful  news 
that  Roderick  Fariingdon  had  escaped  from  a  Ger- 
man prison  camp  and  was  safe  in  England. 

Ruth  shed  many  happy  tears  over  this  best  of 
all  bridal  gifts,  "not  enough  to  dim  the  shining 
blue  of  her  eyes  but  enough  to  give  them  a  lovely, 
misty  tenderness  which  made  her  sweeter  than  ever 
Larry  thought,  and  who  should  have  magic  eyes 
if  not  a  bridegroom? 

A  little  later  came  Carlotta  and  Dick,  the  latter 
well  and  strong  again  but  thin  and  pale  and  rather 
sober.  Tony  loved  him  for  grieving  for  Alan  as  she 
knew  he  did.  He  too  had  known  and  loved  the 
dead  man  and  understood  him  perhaps  better  than 
she  had  herself.  For  after  all  no  man  and  woman 
can  ever  fully  understand  each  other  especially  if 


414  WILD  WINGS 


they  are  in  love.  So  many  faint  nuances  of  doubt 
and  fear  and  pride  and  passion  and  jealousy  are 
forever  drifting  between  lovers  obscuring  clarity 
of  vision. 

Carlotta  was  prettier  than  ever  with  a  new  sweet- 
ness and  womanliness  which  her  love  had  wrought 
in  her  during  the  year.  People  who  had  known  her 
mother  said  she  was  growing  daily  more  like  Rose 
though  always  before  they  had  traced  a  greater  re- 
semblance to  the  other  side  of  the  house,  to  her  Aunt 
Lottie  particularly.  She  and  Philip  were  to  be 
married  in  the  spring.  "When  the  orioles  come" 
Carlotta  had  said  remembering  her  father's  story 
of  that  other  brief  mating. 

Tony  and  Carlotta  slipped  away  from  the  others 
to  talk  by  themselves.  Carlotta  too  had  known 
and  liked  Alan  and  to  all  such  Tony  clung  just 
now. 

"He  was  so  different  at  the  end,"  she  said  to  her 
friend.  "I  wish  you  could  have  known  him  that 
way — so  dear  and  gentle  and  wonderful.  He 
kept  his  promise  everyway,  lived  absolutely  straight 
and  clean  and  fine." 

"He  did  it  for  you,  Tony.  He  never  could  have 
done  it  for  himself.  He  wouldn't  have  thought  it 
worth  while.  Don't  tell  me  if  you  don't  want  to 
but  I  have  guessed  a  good  many  things  since  I  knew 
about  Dick  and  I  have  wondered  if  he  wasn't 
rather  glad — to  get  killed." 

"Yes,  Dick  thinks  and  I  think  too  that  he  let  the 
dagger  find  him.  I  have  always  called  him  my 
royal  lover.  His  death  was  the  most  royal  part 
of  all." 

Carlotta  was  silent.  She  hoped  that  somewhere 
Alan  was  finding  the  happiness  he  seemed  always 
to  have  missed  on  earth.  Then  seeing  her  friend's 
lovely  eyes  with  the  heavy  shadow  in  them  where 
there  had  been  only  sunshine  before  her  heart  re- 


TALE  ENDS  IN  THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL     415 

belled.  Poor  Tony!  Why  must  she  suffer  like 
this?  She  was  so  young.  Was  life  really  over  for 
her?  For  Carlotta  in  her  own  happiness  life 
and  love  were  synonymous  terms.  Something  of 
what  was  in  her  mind  she  said  to  her  friend. 

"I  don't  know,"  confessed  Tony.  "It  is  too  soon 
to  tell.  Just  now  Alan  fills  every  nook  and  cranny 
of  me.  I  can't  think  of  any  other  man  or  imagine 
myself  loving  anybody  else  as  I  loved  him.  But  I 
am  a  very  much  alive  person.  I  don't  believe  I 
shall  give  myself  to  death  forever.  Alan  himself 
wouldn't  want  it  so.  A  part  of  me  will  always  be 
his  but  there  are  other  margins  of  me  that  Alan 
never  touched  and  these  maybe  I  shall  give  to  some 
one  else  when  the  time  comes." 

"Does  that  mean  Dick — John  Massey?" 

"Maybe.  Maybe  not.  I  have  told  him  not  to 
speak  of  love  for  a  long,  long  time.  We  must  both 
be  free.  He  is  going  to  France  as  a  war  corre- 
spondent next  week." 

"Don't  you  hate  to  have  him  go?" 

"Yes,  I  do.  But  I  can't  be  selfish  enough  to 
keep  him  hanging  round  me  forever  on  the  slim 
chance  that  some  time  I  shall  be  willing  to  marry 
him.  He  is  too  fine  to  be  treated  like  that.  He 
wants  to  go  overseas  unless  I  will  marry  him  now 
and  I  can't  do  that.  It  is  better  that  we  should 
be  apart  for  a  while.  As  for  me  I  have  my  work 
and  I  am  going  to  plunge  into  it  as  deep  and  hard 
as  I  can.  I  am  not  going  to  be  unhappy.  You 
can't  be  unhappy  when  you  love  your  work  as  I 
love  mine.  Don't  be  sorry  for  me,  Carlotta.  I 
am  not  sorry  for  myself.  Even  if  I  never  loved 
again  and  never  was  loved  I  should  still  have  had 
enough  for  a  life  time.  It  is  more  than  many 
women  have,  more  than  I  deserve." 

The  bride  white  day  wore  on  to  twilight  and  as 
the  clock  struck  the  hour  of  five  Ruth  Farringdon 


416  WILD  WINGS 


came  down  the  broad  oak  staircase  clad  in  the 
shining  splendor  of  the  bridal  gown  she  had 
"dreamed,"  wearing  her  grandmother's  pearls  and 
the  lace  veil  which  Larry's  lovely  mother  had  worn 
as  Ned  Holiday's  bride  long  and  long  ago.  At 
the  foot  of  the  stairs  Larry  waited  and  took  her 
hand.  Eric  and  Hester  flanking  the  living  room 
door  pushed  aside  the  curtains  for  the  two  who  still 
hand  in  hand  walked  past  the  children  into  the 
room  where  the  others  were  assembled.  Gravely 
and  brimming  with  importance  the  guard  of  honor 
followed,  the  latter  bearing  the  bride's  bouquet,  the 
former  squeezing  the  wedding  ring  in  his  small 
fist.  Kuth  took  her  place  beside  the  senior  doc- 
tor. The  minister  opened  his  mouth  to  proceed 
with  the  ceremony,  shut  it  again  with  a  little 
gasp. 

For  suddenly  the  curtains  were  swept  aside 
again,  this  time  with  a  breezier  and  less  stately 
sweep  and  Ted  Holiday  in  uniform  and  sergeant's 
regalia  plunged  into  the  room,  a  thinner,  browner, 
taller  Ted,  with  a  new  kind  of  dignity  about  him 
but  withal  the  same  blue-eyed  lad  writh  the  old 
heart  warming  smile,  still  always  Teddy  the  be- 
loved. 

"Don't  mind  me,"  he  announced.  "Please  go  on." 
And  he  slipped  into  a  place  beside  Tony  drawing 
her  hand  in  his  with  a  warm  pressure  as  he  did 
so. 

They  went  on.  Laurence  LaRue  Holiday  and 
Elinor  Ruth  Farringdon  were  made  man  and  wife 
till  death  did  them  part.  The  old  clock  on  the 
mantel  which  had  looked  down  on  these  two  on  a 
less  happy  occasion  looked  on  still,  ticking  away 
calmly,  telling  no  tales  and  asking  no  questions. 
What  was  a  marriage  more  or  less  to  time? 

The  ceremony  over  it  was  the  newly  arrived 
sergeant  rather  than  the  bride  and  groom  who  was 


TALE  ENDS  IN  THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL     417 

the  center   of   attraction    and    none   were   better 
pleased  than  Larry  and  Ruth  to  have  it  so. 

It  was  a  flying  visit  on  Ted's  part.  He  had 
managed  to  secure  a  last  minute  leave  just 
before  sailing  from  Montreal  at  which  place  he 
had  to  report  the  day  after  to-morrow. 

"So  let's  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry,"  he  finished  his 
explanation  gayly.  "But  first,  please,  Larry,  may  I 
kiss  the  bride?" 

"Go  to  it,"  laughed  his  brother.  "I'm  so  hanged 
glad  to  see  you  Kid,  I've  half  a  mind  to  kiss  you 
myself."  . 

Needing  no  further  urging  Ted  availed  himself 
of  the  proffered  privilege  and  kissed  the  bride,  not 
once  but  three  times,  once  on  each  rosy  cheek, 
and  last  full  on  her  pretty  mouth  itself. 

"There !"  he  announced  standing  off  to  survey  her, 
both  her  hands  still  in  his  possession.  "I've  al- 
ways wanted  to  do  that  and  now  I've  done  it.  I 
feel  better." 

Everybody  laughed  at  that  not  because  what  he 
said  was  so  very  amusing  as  because  their  hearts 
were  so  full  of  joy  to  have  the  irrepressible  young- 
est Holiday  at  home  again  after  the  long  anxious 
weeks  of  his  absence. 

Under  cover  of  the  laugh  he  whispered  in  Ruth's 
ear,  "Gee!  But  I'm  glad  you  are  all  right  again, 
sweetness.  And  your  Geoffrey  Annersley  is  some 
peach  of  a  cousin,  I'm  telling  you,  though  I'm 
confoundedly  glad  he  decided  he  was  married  to 
somebody  else  and  left  the  coast  clear  for  Larry." 

He  squeezed  her  hand  again,  a  pressure  which 
meant  more  than  his  words  as  Ruth  knew  and  then 
he  turned  to  Larry.  The  hands  of  the  two 
brothers  met  and  each  looked  into  the  other's  face, 
for  once  unashamed  of  the  emotion  that  mastered 
them.  Characteristically  Ted  was  the  first  to  re- 
cover speech. 


418  WILD  WINGS 


"Larry,  dear  old  chap,  I  wish  I  could  tell  you 
how  happy  I  am  that  it  has  come  out  so  ripping 
right  for  you  and  Ruth.  You  deserve  all  the  luck 
and  love  in  the  world.  I  only  wish  mother  and 
dad  could  be  here  now.  Maybe  they  are.  I  believe 
they  must  know  somehow.  Dad  seems  awfully 
close  to  me  lately  especially  since  I've  been  in  this 
war  business."  Then  seeing  Larry's  face  shadow 
he  added,  "And  you  mustn't  worry  about  me,  old 
man.  I  am  going  to  come  through  and  it  is  all 
right  anyway  whatever  happens.  You  know  your- 
self death  isn't  so  much — not  such  a  horrible  cala- 
mity as  we  talk  as  if  it  were." 

"I  know.  But  it  is  horribly  hard  to  reconcile 
myself  to  your  going.  I  can't  seem  to  make  up 
my  mind  to  accept  it  especially  as  you  needn't  have 
gone." 

"Don't  let  that  part  bother  you.  The  old  U.  S. 
A.  will  be  in  it  herself  before  you  know  it  and  then 
I'd  have  gone  anyway.  Nothing  would  have  kept 
me.  What  is  the  odds?  I  am  glad  to  be  getting  in 
on  the  front  row  myself.  I  am  going  to  be  all 
right  I  tell  you.  Going  to  have  a  bully  time  and 
when  we  have  the  Germans  jolly  well  licked  I'm 
coming  home  and  find  me  as  pretty  a  wife  as  Ruth 
if  there  is  one  to  be  found  in  America  and  marry 
her  quick  as  lightning." 

Larry  smiled  at  that.  It  was  so  like  Ted  it  was 
good  to  hear.  And  irrationally  enough  he  found 
himself  more  than  a  little  reassured  and  comforted 
because  the  other  lad  declared  he  was  going  to  be 
all  right  and  have  a  bully  time  and  come  back  safe 
when  the  job  was  done. 

"And  I  say,  Larry."  Ted's  voice  was  soberer 
now.  "I  have  always  wanted  to  tell  you  how  I 
appreciated  your  standing  by  me  so  magnificently 
in  that  horrible  mess  of  mine.  I  wouldn't  have 
blamed  you  if  you  had  felt  like  throwing  me  over 


TALE  ENDS  IN  THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL      419 

for  life  after  my  being  such  a  tarnation  idiot  and 
disgracing  the  family  like  that.  I'll  never  forget 
how  white  you  and  Uncle  Phil  both  were  about  it 
every  way  and  maybe  you  won't  believe  it  but 
'there'll  never  be  anything  like  that  again.  There 
are  some  things  I'm  through  with — at  least  if  I'm 
not  I'm  even  more  of  a  fool  than  I  think  I  am." 

"Don't,  Ted.  I  haven't  been  such  a  model  of 
virtue  and  wisdom  that  I  can  afford  to  sit  in  judg- 
ment on  you.  I've  learned  a  few  things  myself 
this  year  and  I  am  not  so  cock  sure  in  my  views 
as  I  was^by  a  long  shot.  Anyway  you  have  more 
than  made  up  by  what  you  have  done  since  and 
what  you  are  going  to  do  over  there.  Let's  forget 
the  rest  and  just  remember  that  we  are  both  Holi- 
days, and  it  is  up  to  both  of  us  to  measure  up  to 
Dad  and  Uncle  Phil,  far  as  we  can." 

"Some  stunt,  what?"  Thus  Ted  flippantly  mixed 
his  familiar  American  and  newly  acquired  Brit- 
ish vernacular.  "You  are  dead  right,  Larry.  I 
am  afraid  I'm  doomed  to  land  some  nine  miles  or 
so  below  the  mark  but  I'm  going  to  make  a  stab  at 
it  anyway." 

Later  there  was  a  gala  dinner  party,  an  occa- 
sion almost  as  gay  as  that  Round  Table  banquet 
over  eight  years  ago  had  been  when  Dick  Carson 
had  been  formally  inducted  into  the  order  and 
Doctor  Holiday  had  announced  that  he  wras  going 
to  marry  Miss  Margery.  And  as  before  there  was 
laughter  and  gay  talk  and  teasing,  affectionate 
jest  and  prophecy  mingled  with  the  toasting. 

There  were  toasts  to  the  reigning  bride  and  groom, 
Larry  and  Ruth,  to  the  coming  bride  and  groom 
Philip  and  Carlotta,  to  Tony,  the  understudy  that 
was,  the  star  that  was  to  be;  to  Dick  Carson  that 
had  been,  John  Massey  that  was,  foreign  correspond- 
ent, and  future  famous  author.  There  was  a  par- 
ticularly stirring  toast  to  Sergeant  Ted  who  would 


420  WILD  WINGS 


some  day  be  returning  to  his  native  shore  at  least  a 
captain  if  not  a  major  with  all  kinds  of  adventures 
and  honors  to  his  credit.  Everybody  smiled  gal- 
lantly over  this  toast.  Not  one  of  them  would  let 
a  shadow  of  grief  or  dread  for  Teddy  the  beloved 
cloud  this  one  happy  home  evening  of  his  before 
he  left  the  Hill  perhaps  forever.  The  Holidays 
were  like  that. 

And  then  Larry  on  his  feet  raised  his  hand  for 
silence. 

"Last  and  best  of  all,"  he  said,  "I  give  you — the 
Head  of  the  House  of  Holiday — the  best  friend  and 
the  finest  man  I  know — Uncle  Phil !" 

Larry  smiled  down  at  his  uncle  as  he  spoke  but 
there  was  deep  feeling  in  his  fine  gray  eyes.  Bet- 
ter than  any  one  else  he  knew  how  much  of  his 
present  happiness  he  owed  to  that  good  friend 
and  fine  man  Philip  Holiday. 

The  whole  table  rose  to  this  toast  except  the  doc- 
tor, even  to  the  small  Eric  and  Hester  who  had  no 
idea  what  it  was  all  about  but  found  it  all  very 
exciting  and  delightful  and  beautifully  grown  up. 
As  they  drank  the  toast  Ted's  free  hand  rested 
with  affectionate  pressure  on  his  uncle's  and 
Tony  on  the  other  side  set  down  her  glass  and 
squeezed  his  hand  instead.  They  too  were  trying 
to  tell  him  that  what  Larry  had  spoken  in  his  own 
behalf  was  true  for  them  also.  They  wanted  to  have 
him  know  how  much  he  meant  to  them  and  how 
much  they  wanted  to  do  and  be  for  his  dear  sake. 

Perhaps  Philip  Holiday  won  his  order  of  dis- 
tinguished service  then  and  there.  At  any  rate 
with  his  own  children  and  Ned's  around  him,  with 
the  wife  of  his  heart  smiling  down  at  him  from 
across  the  table  with  proud,  happy,  tear  wet  eyes, 
the  Head  of  the  House  of  Holiday  was  content. 

THE  END 


t8x&&a8a®oaam&c8& 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  VIRGINIA 
DALE 

Another  GLAD  Book 

Trade  Mark 

By  John  Francis,  Jr.  gjR? 

Cloth  decorative,  I2mo,  illustrated,  $1.90 


This  new  novel,  marking  the  advent  of  a  hitherto 
unknown  writer  of  fiction,  offers,  along  with  a  delight- 
ful romance  of  youth,  a  tinge  of  scintillating  humor 
that  stamps  itself  indelibly  on  the  mind  of  the  reader, 
and  evokes  many  a  sympathetic  chuckle.  It  fairly 
bubbles  over  with  exuberant  cheerfulness,  and  is  sure 
to  inject  a  good  share  of  its  unlimited  store  of  "What's 
good  for  the  world  "  into  every  one  who  is  lucky  enough 
to  read  it. 

Furthermore,  the  peculiar  magnetism  of  the  char- 
acters is  such  that  the  reader  cannot  believe  they  are 
merely  book  creatures,  and,  we  wager  they  are  not. 
Virginia  Dale,  the  heroine,  is  a  Good  Samaritan,  Miss 
Sunshine,  and  Glad  Heart  —  all  of  these  —  and  yet  the 
most  natural  young  person  imaginable,  and  as  she  pro- 
gresses in  her  mission  of  "  brightening  up  the  corner  " 
she  builds  for  her  own  future  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
characters  fiction  has  ever  claimed. 

The  story  is  essentially  a  "  character "  story,  but 
this  does  not  detract  from  the  plot  what  it  just  seems  to 
get  in  the  natural  course  of  things,  for,  as  a  venerable 
reader  once  aptly  remarked :  "  When  story  folk  act 
natural,  we  ain't  goin'  to  forgit  'em." 


THE  PRINCESS  NAIDA 


By  Brewer  Corcoran 


Author  of  "  The  Road  to  Le  Reve,"  etc. 

Cloth  decorative,  I2mo,  illustrated  by  H.  Weston  Taylor, 
$1.90 


Adventure  and  romance  are  the  keynotes  of  this  new 
novel  by  Brewer  Corcoran  —  adventure  which  will 
stir  the  blood  of  every  lover  of  fast-moving  action  and 
culminative  plot,  and  romance  which  will  charm  all 
who  have  a  tender  spot  for  a  lovably  beautiful  girl  and 
a  regular  "  he  "  man.  It  is  a  tale  of  today,  set  amid 
the  mountains  of  Switzerland  and  the  ugly  rocks  of 
Bolshevism  on  which  is  wrecked  the  mythical  princi- 
pality of  Nirgendsberg  —  a  story  of  a  brave  little 
princess  who  puts  unfaltering  faith  in  American  man- 
hood and  resourcefulness  and  finds  a  newer  and  a  better 
throne.  Bill  Hale  is  the  sort  of  hero  who  would  win  any 
girl's  love  —  a  clever,  capable  chap  with  two  fists  and 
a  keen  sense  of  humor.  Whether  he  is  matching  wits 
with  suave  Count  Otto,  romping  with  tiny  Janos,  fight- 
ing for  his  life  in  the  hunting  lodge  at  Wolkensberg  or 
pleading  for  the  love  of  his  "  princess  who  is  all  girl," 
he  is  a  man.  The  story  of  his  fight  for  all  that  counts 
in  life  is  told  with  a  rush  and  sweep  of  action  which 
will  hold  the  reader  breathless.  The  dialogue,  like  that 
in  Mr.  Corcoran's  other  books,  sparkles  with  humor, 
but  there  is  a  certain  pleasurable  grimness  in  his  method 
of  handling  the  Bolshevik  which  will  strike  an  answer- 
ing  note  in  every  true  American  heart  today. 

"A  romance  of  vivid  interest,  a  love  story  full  of 
youth  and  adventures  that  thrill.  The  dialogue  is 
unusually  clever,  the  characters  delightfully  real,  the 
plot  one  that  holds  the  reader's  interest  to  the  end." 
New  York  Sun. 


A  FLOWER  OF  MONTEREY: 

A  Romance  of  the  Californias 
i^t  By  Katherine  B.  Hamill 

Cloth  decorative,  ismo,  illustrated,  $1.90 


The  wealth,  beauty  and  sunshine  of  the  Californias  in 
the  days  when  Spain  controlled  our  western  coast  and 
England  looked  with  covetous  eyes,  form  the  setting 
for  this  beautiful  and  artistic  romance  by  a  new  author. 
Mrs.  Hamill  has  recreated  vividly  the  little  Spanish 
town  where  the  mission  bells  rang  silvery  at  dawn,  where 
scarlet  uniforms  flashed  in  the  stately  drill  of  an  after- 
noon  dress  parade  and  beautiful  women  wore  lace 
mantillas.  Pajarita,  the  "  Flower  of  Monterey,"  is  an 
American  waif,  cast  up  by  the  sea,  who  grows  up  among 
the  senors  and  senoritas,  happy  as  the  sunshine,  but 
with  a  healthy  American  disrespect  for  the  Spanish 
modes  of  life.  Two  men  love  her  —  Don  Jose,  the 
gobernador  proprietaro  of  all  the  Californias,  and  a 
young  American  sailor-adventurer,  John  Asterly. 

John  Asterly,  the  hero  of  A  FLOWER  OF  MON- 
TEREY,  came  to  the  Californias  from  Boston.  He  is 
perhaps  thirty  years  old,  adventurous  and  impetuous. 
At  a  dance  on  the  beach  at  Monterey,  shortly  after  his 
arrival  in  the  Californias,  he  meets  Pajarita,  "the 
Flower  of  Monterey,"  and  falls  in  love  with  the  girl, 
although  she  is  promised  to  her  benefactor,  the  Spanish 
Governor.  On  the  very  night  before  her  wedding, 
Asterly  tries  to  dissuade  Pajarita  from  her  marriage 
with  some  one  other  than  an  American,  and  then  the 
romance,  rivalry  and  adventure  begin.  The  historical 
setting  of  the  story  is  correct  and  the  romance  unfolds 
wi*h  dash  and  symmetry. 


WILD  WINGS 


By  Margaret  R.   Piper 


Author  of  "  Sylvia's  Experiment,"  "  The  House  on  the 
Hill,"  "  Sylvia  Arden  Decides,"  etc. 

Cloth  decorative,  i2mo,  illustrated,  $1.90 

9 

In  this  "  story  of  youth  for  grown-ups,"  the  vigorous, 
happy  Holiday  youngsters  who  lived  in  the  "  House  on 
the  Hill  "  develop  into  keen,  lovable  young  people, 
thoroughly  worth  knowing.  To  Tony,  as  brilliant  and 
beautiful  as  a  girl  can  well  be  and  still  be  human,  comes 
a  successful  theatrical  career  on  Broadway,  and  a  great 
love,  and  Larry  grows  into  the  industrious,  reliant 
young  doctor  that  one  would  expect  him  to  be. 

Few  writers  today  display  the  ability  which  Miss 
Piper  does  to  "  grow  up  "  a  large  family  of  boys  and 
girls,  each  with  an  individuality  well  developed  and 
attractive,  and  her  Holiday  family  holds  a  distinctive 
place  in  American  fiction  for  young  people  today. 

As  the  charming  characters  work  their  way  out  of 
problems  which  face  all  young  people  of  buoyant  spirits 
and  ambitions,  WILD  WINGS  gives  a  definite  message 
as  to  the  happiest  relationship  between  old  and  young. 

"  There  is  a  world  of  human  nature  and  neighborhood 
contentment  in  Margaret  R.  Piper's  books  of  good 
cheer.  Her  tales  are  well  proportioned  and  subtly 
strong  in  their  literary  aspects  and  quality."  North 
American,  Philadelphia. 


Selections  from 

The  Page  Company's 

List  of  Fiction 

WORKS  OF 

ELEANOR  H.  PORTER 

POLLYANNA:  The  GLAD  Book     (500,000) 

Trade  Mark  Trade  Mark 

Cloth  decorative,  12mo,  illustrated,  $1.90 

Mr.  Leigh  Mitchell  Hodges,  The  Optimist,  in  an  editorial  for 
the  Philadelphia  North  American,  says:  "And  when,  after 
Pollyanna  has  gone  away,  you  get  her  letter  saying  she  is 
going  to  take  '  eight  steps'  tomorrow  —  well,  I  don't  know  just 
what  you  may  do,  but  I  know  of  one  person  who  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands  and  shook  with  the  gladdest  sort  of  sadness 
and  got  down  on  his  knees  and  thanked  the  Giver  of  all 
gladness  for  Pollyanna." 

POLLYANNA:  The  GLAD  Book.  MART  PICKFORD  EDITION 

Trade  Mark  Trade  Mark 

Illustrated  with  thirty-two  half-tone  reproductions  of  scenes 
from  the  motion  picture  production,  and  a  jacket  with  a  por- 
trait of  Mary  Pickford  in  color. 

Cloth  decorative,  12mo,  $2.25 

While  preparing  "  Pollyanna  "  for  the  screen,  Miss  Pickford 
said  enthusiastically  that  it  was  the  best  picture  she  'had  ever 
made  in  her  life,  and  the  success  of  the  picture  on  the  screen 
has  amply  justified  her  statement.  Mary  Pickford's  interpre- 
tation of  the  beloved  little  heroine  as  shown  in  the  illustrations, 
adds  immeasurably  to  the  intrinsic  charm  of  this  popular  story. 

POLLYANNA  GROWS  UP:  The  Second  GLAD  Book 

Trade  Mark  (250,000)  Trade  Mark 

Cloth  decorative,  12mo,  illustrated,  $1.90 

When  the  story  of  POLLYANNA  told  in  The  Glad  Book  was 
ended,  a  great  cry  of  regret  for  the  vanishing  "  Glad  Girl " 
went  up  all  over  the  country  —  and  other  countries,  too.  Now 
POLLYANNA  appears  again,  just  as  sweet  and  joyous-hearted, 
more  grown  up  and  more  lovable. 

"  Take  away  frowns !  Put  down  the  worries  !  Stop  fidgeting 
and  disagreeing  and  grumbling !  Cheer  up,  everybody !  POLLY- 
ANNA  has  come  back!"  —  Christian  Herald. 


THE    PAGE    C COMPANY'S 


WORKS   OF   ELEANOR    H.   PORTER    (Continued) 

MISS  BILLY  (9srd  thousand) 

Cloth   decorative,   with  a   frontispiece   in   full   color   from   a 

painting  by  G.  Tyng,  $1.90 

"  There    is    something    altogether    fascinating    about    '  Miss 

Billy,'  some  inexplicable  feminine  characteristic  that  seems  to 

demand  the  individual  attention  of  the  reader  from  the  moment 

we  open  the  book  until  we  reluctantly  turn  the  last  page."  — 

Boston  Transcript. 

MISS  BILLY'S  DECISION  (ySth  thousand) 

Cloth  decorative,  with  a  frontispiece  in  full  color  from  a 
painting  by  Henry  W.  Moore,  $1.90 

"  The  story  is  written  in  bright,  clever  style  and  has  plenty 

of  action  and  humor.     Miss  Billy  is  nice  to  know  and  so  are 

her  friends."  —  New  Haven  Leader. 

MISS  BILLY  — MARRIED   (86th  thousand) 

Cloth  decorative,  with  a   frontispiece  in    full  color  from   a 

painting  by  W.  Haskell  Coffin,  $1.90 

"  Although  Pollyanna  is  the  only  copyrighted  glad  girl,  Miss 

Billy  is  just  as  glad  as  the  younger  figure  and  radiates  just 

as  much  gladness.     She  disseminates  joy  so  naturally  that  we 

wonder  why  all  girls  are  not  like  her."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

SIX  STAR  RANCH  (45th  thousand) 

Cloth  decorative,  12mo,  illustrated  by  R.  Farrington  Elwell, 

$1.90 

" '  Six  Star  Ranch '  bears  all  the  charm  of  the  author's  genius 
and  is  about  a  little  girl  down  in  Texas  who  practices  the 
'  Pollyanna  Philosophy '  with  irresistible  success.  The  book  is 
one  of  the  kindliest  things,  if  not  the  best,  that  the  author  of 
the  Pollyanna  books  has  done.  It  is  a  welcome  addition  to  the 
fast-growing  family  of  Glad  Books."  —  Howard  Russell  Bangs 
in  the  Boston  Post. 

CROSS  CURRENTS 

Cloth  decorative,  illustrated,  $1.50 

"To  one  who  enjoys  a  story  of  life  as  it  is  to-day,  with  its 

sorrows  as  well  as  its  triumphs,  this  volume  is  sure  to  appeal." 

—  Book  News  Monthly. 

THE  TURN  OF  THE  TIDE 

Cloth  decorative,  illustrated,  $1.50 

"  A  very  beautiful  book  showing  the  influence  that  went  to 
the  development  of  the  life  of  a  dear  little  girl  into  a  true  and 
good  woman."  —  Herald  and  Presbyter,  Cincinnati,  Ohio. 


LIST    OF   FICTION 


NOVELS   BY 

ELIOT  HARLOW  ROBINSON 

A  book  which  has  established  its  author  in  the  front  rank  of 
American  novelists. 

SMILES,  A  ROSE  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS  (26th 
thousand) 

Cloth  decorative,   12mo,  illustrated,  $1.90 

Smiles  is  a  girl  who  has  already  made  many  friends  and 
is  destined  to  make  many  more.  Her  real  name  is  Rose,  but 
the  rough  folk  of  the  Cumberlands  preferred  their  own  way 
of  addressing  her,  for  her  smile  was  so  bright  and  winning 
that  no  other  name  suited  her  so  well. 

"  This  is  the  best  book  I  have  ever  illustrated  for  any  pub- 
lisher. I  Rave  tried  to  make  the  pictures  all  that  you  hoped 
for  them."  —  H.  Weston  Taylor. 

E.  J.  Anderson,  former  managing  Editor  of  the  Boston 
Advertiser  and  Record,  is  enthusiastic  over  the  story  and  says: 

"  I  have  read  '  Smiles '  in  one  reading.  After  starting  it  I 
could  not  put  it  down.  Never  in  my  life  have  I  read  a  book 
like  this  that  thrilled  me  half  as  much,  and  never  have  I  seen 
a  more  masterful  piece  of  writing." 

THE  MAID  OF  MIRABELLE :  A  Romance  of  Lorraine 

Illustrated    with    reproductions    of    sketches    made    by    the 
author,  and   with  a   portrait  of   "  The  Maid  of  Mirabelle," 
from  a  painting  by  Neale  Ordayne,  on  the  cover. 
Cloth  decorative,  12mo,  $1.90 

A  story  of  human  and  heart  interest.  The  "  Maid,"  Joan,  is 
a  personality  just  as  real  and  lovable  as  was  Smiles. 

"  The  spirit  of  all  the  book  is  the  bubbling,  the  irrepressibly 
indomitable,  cheerful  faith  of  the  people,  at  their  very  best, 
against  the  grave  Quakerism  from  the  United  States  standing 
out  grimly  but  faithfully.  The  tale  is  simply,  but  strongly 
told."  —  Montreal  Family  Herald  and  Weekly  Star. 

MAN  PROPOSES;  Or,  The  Romance  of  John  Alden 
Shaw 

Cloth  decorative,  12mo,  illustrated,  $1.90 

"  This  is  first  of  all  a  charming  romance,  distinguished  by  a 
fine  sentiment  of  loyalty  to  an  ideal,  by  physical  courage,  in- 
domitable resolution  to  carry  to  success  an  altruistic  under- 
taking, a  splendid  woman's  devotion,  and  by  a  vein  of  spon- 
taneous, sparkling  humor  that  offsets  its  more  serious  phases." 
—  Springfield  Republican. 


THE   PAGE    COMPANY'S 


THE    ROMANCES   OF 

L.  M.  MONTGOMERY 

Each  one  volume,  cloth  decorative,  12mo,  $1.90 
ANNE  OF  GREEN  GABLES   (355th  thousand) 

Illustrated  by  M.  A.  and  W.  A.  J.  Claus. 

"  In  '  Anne  of  Green  Gables '  you  will  find  the  dearest  and 

most  moving  and  delightful  child  since  the  immortal  Alice." 

Mark  Twain  in  a  letter  to  Francis  Wilson. 

"  I  take  it  as  a  great  test  of  the  worth  of  the  book  that  while 
the  young  people  are  rummaging  all  over  the  house  looking  for 
Anne,  the  head  of  the  family  has  carried  her  off  to  read  on  his 
way  to  town."  —  BUss  Carman. 

ANNE  OF  AVONLEA  (255th  thousand) 

Illustrated  by  George  Gibbs. 

"  Here  we  have  a  book  as  human  as  '  David  Harum,'  a 
heroine  who  outcharms  a  dozen  princesses  of  fiction,  and  re- 
minds you  of  some  sweet  girl  you  know,  or  knew  back  in  the 
days  when  the  world  was  young."  —  San  Francisco  Bulletin. 

CHRONICLES  OF  AVONLEA  (43d  thousand) 

Illustrated  by  George  Gibbs. 

"  The  author  shows  a  wonderful  knowledge  of  humanity, 
great  insight  and  warmheartedness  in  the  manner  in  which 
some  of  the  scenes  are  treated,  and  the  sympathetic  way  the 
gentle  peculiarities  of  the  characters  are  brought  out."  — 
Baltimore  Sun. 

ANNE  OF  THE  ISLAND  (6sth  thousand) 

Illustrated  by  H.  Weston  Taylor. 

"  It  has  been  well  worth  while  to  watch  the  growing  up  of 
Anne,  and  the  privilege  of  being  on  intimate  terms  with  her 
throughout  the  process  has  been  properly  valued.  The  once 
little  girl  of  Green  Gables  should  have  a  permanent  fictional 
place  of  high  yet  tender  esteem."  —  New  York  Herald. 

FURTHER  CHRONICLES  OF  AVONLEA  (20th  thou- 
sand).    Illustrated  by  John  Goss. 
Nathan    Haskell    Dole    compares    Avonlea    to    Longfellow's 

Grand  Pre  —  and  says,  "  There  is  something  in  these  continued 

chronicles   of  Avonlea  like"  the  delicate   art  which  has  made 

Cranford  a  classic." 

"  The  reader  has  dipped  into  but  one  or  two  stories  when  he 

realizes  that  the  author  is  the  most  natural  story  teller  of  the 

day."  —  Salt  Lake  City  Citizen. 


LIST    OF   FICTION 


WORKS  OF  L.  M.  MONTGOMERY  (Continued) 

ANNE  OF  GREEN  GABLES:  The  Mary  Miles  Minter 
Edition 

Illustrated  with  twenty-four  half-tone  reproductions  of 
scenes  from  the  motion  picture  production,  and  a  jacket  in 
colors  with  Miss  Minter's  portrait. 

Cloth  decorative,   12mo,  $2.25 

"You  pass  from  tears  to  laughter  as  the  story  unfolds,  and 

there  is  never  a  moment's  hesitation  in  admitting  that  Anne 

has    completely    won    your    heart."  —  Joe    Mitchell    Chappie, 

Editor,  The  National  Magazine. 

"  Mary  Miles  Minter's  '  Anne '  on  ,ihe  screen  is  worthy  of 
Mark  Twain's  definition  of  her  as  the  'dearest  and  most  moving 
and  delightful  child  since  the  immortal  "  Alice." '  "  —  Cam- 
bridge Tribune. 

KILMENY  OF  THE  ORCHARD  (52d  thousand) 

Illustrated  by  George  Gibbs.     Cloth  decorative,  12mo,  $1.90 
"  A  purely  idyllic  love  story  full  of  tender  sentiment,  red- 
olent with  the  perfume  of  rose  leaves  and  breathing  of  apple 
blossoms  and  the  sweet  clover  of  twilight  meadow-lands."  — 
San  Francisco  Bulletin. 

"  A  story  born  in  the  heart  of  Arcadia  and  brimful  of  the 
sweet  and  simple  life  of  the  primitive  environment." — Boston 
Herald. 

THE  STORY  GIRL  (46th  thousand) 

Illustrated  by  George  Gibbs.  Cloth  decorative,  12mo,  $1.90 
"  It  will  be  read  and,  we  venture  to  predict,  reread  many 
times,  for  there  is  a  freshness  and  sweetness  about  it  which  will 
help  to  lift  the  load  of  care,  to  cheer  the  weary  and  to  make 
brighter  still  the  life  of  the  carefree  and  the  happy."  — 
Toronto,  Can.,  Globe. 

" '  The  Story  Girl '  is  of  decidedly  unusual  conception  and 
interest,  and  will  rival  the  author's  earlier  books  in  popularity." 
— .  Chicago  Western  Trade  Journal. 

THE  GOLDEN  ROAD  (28th  thousand) 

Illustrated  by  George  Gibbs.     Cloth  decorative,  12mo,  $1.90 
In  which  it  is  proven  that  "  Life  was  a  rose-lipped  comrade 
with  purple  flowers  dripping  from  her  fingers." 

"  It  is  a  simple,  tender  tale,  touched  to  higher  notes,  now 
and  then,  by  delicate  hints  of  romance,  tragedy  and  pathos. 
Any  true-hearted  human  being  might  read  this  book  with  en- 
joyment, no  matter  what  his  or  her  age,  social  status,  or 
economic  place."  —  Chicago  Record-Herald. 


THE   PAGE    COMPANY'S 


NOVELS   BY 

ISLA  MAY  MULLINS 

Each,  one  volume,  cloth  decorative,  Kmo,  illustrated,  $1.75 

THE  BLOSSOM  SHOP:  A  Story  of  the  South 

"  Frankly  and  wholly  romance  is  this  book,  and  lovable  —  as 
is  a  fairy  tale  properly  told."  —  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

ANNE  OF  THE  BLOSSOM  SHOP:   Or,  the  Growing 
Up  of  Anne  Carter 

"A  charming  portrayal  of  the  attractive  life  of  the  South, 
refreshing  as  a  breeze  that  blows  through  a  pine  forest."  — 
Albany  Times-Union. 

ANNE'S  WEDDING 

"  Presents  a  picture  of  home  life  that  is  most  appealing  in 
love  and  affection."  —  Every  Evening,  Wilmington,  Del. 

THE  MT.  BLOSSOM  GIRLS 

"  In  the  writing  of  the  book  the  author  is  at  her  best  as  a 
story  teller.  It  is  a  fitting  climax  to  the  series."  —  Reader. 

TWEEDIE:  The  Story  of  a  True  Heart 

"  The  story  itself  is  full  of  charm  and  one  enters  right  into 
the  very  life  of  Tweedie  and  feels  as  if  he  had  indeed  been 
lifted  into  an  atmosphere  of  unselfishness,  enthusiasm  and 
buoyant  optimism."  —  Boston  Ideas. 

NOVELS    BY 

DAISY  RHODES  CAMPBELL 

THE  FIDDLING  GIRL 

Cloth  decorative,  illustrated  $1.65 

"  A  thoroughly  enjoyable  tale,  written  in  a  delightful  vein  of 
sympathetic  comprehension."  —  Boston  Herald. 

THE  PROVING  OF  VIRGINIA 

Cloth  decorative,  illustrated  $1.65 

"  A  book  which  contributes  so  much  of  freshness,  enthusiasm, 

and  healthy  life  to  offset  the  usual  offerings  of  modern  fiction, 

deserves    all   the  praise   which   can  be   showered    upon   it."  — 

Kindergarten  Review. 

THE  VIOLIN  LADY 

Cloth  decorative,  illustrated  $1.65 

"  The  author's  style  remains  simple  and  direct,  as  in  her  pre- 
ceding books."  —  Boston  Transcript. 


LIST    OF    FICTION 


DETECTIVE  STORIES  BY 

GEORGE  BARTON 

Each  one  volume,  cloth  decorative,  12mo,  illustrated,  $1.75 

THE  PEMBROKE  MASON  AFFAIR 

"  Not  until  the  end  will  the  reader  ever  surmise  how  Mason 
was  murdered.  An  absorbing  and  thrilling  story."  —  Cleveland 
Topics. 

THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  RED  FLAME 

"  An  admirable  story  —  an  engaging  story  of  love,  mystery 
and  adventure."  —  The  Philadelphia  Inquirer. 

THE  STRANGE  ADVENTURES  OF  BROMLEY 
BARNES 

"  It  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  collection  of  more  interesting 
tales  of  mystery  so  well  told.  The  author  is  crisp,  incisive 
and  inspiring.  The  book  is  the  best  of  its  kind  in  recent  years 
and  adds  to  the  author's  already  high  reputation."  —  New 
York  Tribune. 

THE  AMBASSADOR'S  TRUNK 

"  Mr.  Barton  is  in  the  front  rank  of  the  writers  of  mystery 
stories,  and  this  is  one  of  his  best."  —  Pittsburgh  Chronicle. 

"The  book  is  of  the  good  red-blood  type,  with  few  dull  lines 
and  stirring  action  and  episodes  in  almost  every  page."  — 
Montreal  Herald. 

BUSINESS    NOVELS   BY 

HAROLD  WHITEHEAD 

Professor  of  Sales  Relations,  The  College  of  Business 
Administration,  Boston   University 

Each  one  volume,  cloth,  12mo,  illustrated,  $1.75 

DAWSON  BLACK,  RETAIL  MERCHANT 

"  Contains  much  that  it  would  profit  a  young  merchant  to 
know  and  its  fictional  interest  makes  a  strong  appeal."  —  New 
York  Tribune. 

THE  BUSINESS  CAREER  OF  PETER  FLINT 

"  Peter  Flint  is  certainly  a  marvel.  .  .  .  His  career  reveals 
a  most  remarkable  metamorphosis  from  incapacity,  stubborn- 
ness, and  what  seemed  a  chronic  inclination  to  fall  down  on 
every  job  which  he  undertook,  to  an  amazing  exposition  of 
business  capacity  and  skill."  —  Boston  Transcript. 


THE   PAGE    COMPANY'S 


NOVELS    BY 

MARGARET  R.  PIPER 

SYLVIA'S  EXPERIMENT:   The  Cheerful  Book 


Trade Mark 

Cloth  decorative,  with  a  frontispiece  in  full  color          $1.75 
"  An    atmosphere    of    good    spirits    pervades    the    book ;    the 

humor  that  now  and  then  flashes  across  the  page  is  entirely 

natural."  —  Boston  Post. 

SYLVIA  OF  THE  HILL  TOP:   The  Second  Cheerful 

Book  Trade Mark 

Cloth  decorative,  with  a  frontispiece  in  full  color  |1.75 

"  There  is  a  world  of  human  nature  and  neighborhood  con- 
tentment and  quaint  quiet  humor  in  Margaret  R.  Piper's  second 
book  of  good  cheer."  —  Philadelphia  North  American. 

"  Sylvia  proves  practically  that  she  is  a  messenger  of  j  oy  to 
humanity."  —  The  Post  Express,  Rochester,  N.  Y. 

SYLVIA   ARDEN   DECIDES:    The   Third   Cheerful 
Book  Tradc Mark 

Cloth  decorative,  with  a  frontispiece  in  full  color  $1.75 

"  Its  ease  of  style,  its  rapidity,  its  interest  from  page  to  page, 
are  admirable;  and  it  shows  that  inimitable  power  —  the  story- 
teller's gift  of  verisimilitude.  Its  sureness  and  clearness  are 
excellent,  and  its  portraiture  clear  and  pleasing."  —  The  Reader. 

FICTION  FOR  YOUNGER  READERS  BY 

MARGARET  R.  PIPER 

THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL 

By  MABGAEET  R.  PIPER. 

Cloth  decorative,  illustrated  $1.75 

" '  The  House  on  the  Hill '  presents  higher  ideals  of  service 
and  life  for  boys  and  girls,  and  the  charming  characters 
worked  their  way  out  of  problems  which  face  all  young  people 
of  buoyant  spirits  and  ambition."  —  Buffalo  News. 

"  The  story  is  a  delightful  one,  with  all  kinds  of  interesting 
adventures  and  characters."  —  Sunday  Leader. 

THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  CLAN 

By  MARGARET  R.  PIPER. 

Cloth  decorative,  illustrated  by  John  Goss  $1.75 

"  This  is  a  delightful  story  for  young  and  old,  wholesome 
and  uplifting.  The  chief  charm  of  the  story  lies  in  its  sim- 
plicity."—  Philadelphia  North  American. 


LIST    OF   FICTION 


NOVELS   BY 

MARY  ELLEN  CHASE 

THE  GIRL  FROM  THE  BIG  HORN  COUNTRY 

Cloth,  12mo,  illustrated  by  E.   Farrington  Elwell,  $1.75 

" '  The  Girl  from  the  Big  Horn  Country '  tells  how  Virginia 
Hunter,  a  bright,  breezy,  frank-hearted  '  girl  of  the  Golden 
West '  conies  out  of  the  Big  Horn  country  of  Wyoming  to  the 
old  Bay  State.  Then  things  begin,  when  Virginia  —  who  feels 
the  joyous,  exhilarating  call  of  the  Big  Horn  wilderness  and 
the  outdoor  life  —  attempts  to  become  acclimated  and  adopt 
good  old  New  England  '  ways.'  "  —  Critic. 

VIRGINIA,  OF  ELK  CREEK  VALLEY 

Cloth,  12mo,  illustrated  by  E.  Farrington  Elwell,          $1.75 

"  This   sfory   is    fascinating,   alive   with   constantly   new   and 

fresh  interests  and  every  reader  will  enjoy  the  novel  for  its 

freshness,  its   novelty  and  its  inspiring  glimpses  of  life  with 

nature."  —  The  Editor. 

NOVELS  BY 

OTHER  AUTHORS 

THE  GOLDEN  DOG.    A  Romance  of  Quebec 

By  WILLIAM  KIRBY.       (45th   thousand.) 

Cloth  decorative,  12mo,  illustrated  by  J.  W.  Kennedy,  $1.90 

"  A  powerful  romance  of  love,  intrigue  and  adventure  in  the 

times  of  Louis  XV  and  Madame  de  Pompadour."  —  Boston 

Herald. 

SHE  STANDS  ALONE 

Being  the  story  of  Pilate's  wife. 

By  MARK  ASHTOK. 

Cloth  decorative,  12mo,  illustrated,  $1.75 

Few  novels  of  the  present  day  can  stand  comparison  with 
this  remarkable  book,  which  must  be  ranked  in  modern  litera- 
ture dealing  with  the  early  Christian  era  as  only  second  to 
"Ben  Hur." 

THE  ROAD  TO  LE  REVE 

By  BREWER  CORCORAN. 

Cloth  decorative,  12mo,  illustrated  by  H.  Weston  Taylor,  $1.90 

"  A  romance  of  vivid  interest,  a  love  story  full  of  youth,  the 

great   outdoors   and   adventures   that   thrill.     The   dialogue   is 

unusually  clever,  the  characters  delightfully  real,  the  plot  one 

that  holds  the  reader's  interest  to  the  end."  —  New  York  Sun. 


10  THE   PAGE    COMPANY'S 

THE  FAMOUS  SEA  STORIES  OF 

HERMAN  MELVILLE 

MOBY  DICK;  Or,  The  White  Whale 
TYPEE.     A  Real  Romance  of  the  South  Sea 

OMOO.     A  Narrative   of   Adventures   in  the   South 
Seas;  a  sequel  to  TYPEE 

WHITE  JACKET;  Or,  The  World  on  a  Man-of-War 
Each  one   volume,   cloth  decorative,   12mo,  illustrated   $1.90 

\       The  recent  centenary  of   Herman  Melville  created   renewed 
interest  in  his  famous  sea  stories. 

"  Melville  wove  human  element  and  natural  setting  into  re- 
citals which  aroused  the  enthusiasm  of  critics  and  sent  a  thrill 
of  delight  through  the  reading  public  when  first  published,  and 
which  both  for  form  and  matter  have  ever  since  held  rank  as 
classics  in  the  literature  of  travel."  —  Boston  Herald. 

DETECTIVE    STORIES    BY 

ARTHUR   MORRISON 

Each   one  volume,  cloth  decorative,   12mo,   illustrated,  $1.75 

THE  GREEN  DIAMOND 

"  A  clever,  ingenious  story,  with  j  ust  the  right  combination 
of  detective  skill  and  mystery  and  with  a  touch  of  Oriental 
mysticism."  —  Kansas  City  Star. 

THE  RED  TRIANGLE 

"  The  reader  who  has  a  grain  of  imagination  may  be  defied 
to  lay  this  book  down,  once  he  has  begun  it,  until  the  last  word 
has  been  reached."  —  Boston  Journal. 

"  It  is  a  splendid  story  of  the  kind  that  cannot  fail  to  in- 
terest." —  Detroit  Journal. 

THE  CHRONICLES  OF  MARTIN  HEWITT 

"  The  story  is  told  in  a  forceful,  straightforward  style,  which 
gives  it  impressive  realism."  —  Boston  Herald. 

"  The  story  is  well-written,  unique,  quite  out  of  the  usual 
order,  and  a  vein  of  mystery  running  through  it  that  is  most 
captivating."  —  Christian  Intelligencer. 


LIST   OF   FICTION  11 

HISTORICAL    ROMANCES    OF 

NATHAN  GALLIZIER 

THE  LEOPARD  PRINCE 

Cloth  decorative,  large  12mo,  illustrated  in  color,  $2.00 

"  With    a   vividness   that   is   electrifying    and    a   mastery   of 

emotion   that   thrills,   Mr.   Gallizier  has   written   this   story   of 

Italy  —  a   romance   of   Venice   in   the   fourteenth   century."  — 

The  Lookout,  Cincinnati,  Ohio. 

UNDER  THE  WITCHES'  MOON 

Cloth  decorative,  large   12mo,  illustrated  in  color,  $2.00 

"  A  highly  colored  romance  of  mediaeval  Italy  with  a  most 
interesting  background."  —  New  York  World. 

THE  CRIMSON  GONDOLA 

Cloth  decorative,  large   12mo,  illustrated  in  color,  $2.00 

"  Mr.  Gallizier  is  unusually  strong  in  the  use  of  description, 
and  conveys  vividly  the  gorgeous  decadence  and  luxury  of  the 
sybaritic  city."  —  Los  Angeles  Sunday  Times. 

THE  HILL  OF  VENUS 

Cloth  decorative,  large   12mo,  illustrated  in  color,  $2.00 

This  is  a  vivid  and  powerful  romance  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury in  the  times  of  the  great  Ghibelline  wars. 

"  It  is  vibrant  with  action  and  overflowing  with  human  emo- 
tions throughout.  "  —  Wilmington  Every  Evening. 

THE  COURT  OF  LUCIFER 

Cloth  decorative,  large   12mo,  illustrated  in  color,  $2.00 

"  The  book  is  breathless  reading,  as  much  for  the  adventures, 

the  pageants,  the  midnight  excursions  of  the  minor  characters, 

as  for  the  love  story  of  the  prince  and  Donna  Lucrezia."  — 

.  Boston  Transcript. 

THE  SORCERESS  OF  ROME 

Cloth  decorative,  large  12mo,  illustrated  in  color,  $2.00 

"  A  splendid  bit  of  old  Roman  mosaic,  or  a  gorgeous  piece  of 

tapestry.     Otto  is  a  striking  and  pathetic  figure.     Description 

of  the  city,  the  gorgeous  ceremonials  of  the  court  and  the  revels 

are  a  series  of  wonderful  pictures."  —  Cincinnati  Enquirer. 

CASTEL  DEL  MONTE 

Cloth  decorative,  large  12mo,  illustrated,  $2.00 

"  There  is  color ;  there  is  sumptuous  word-painting  in  these 
pages;  the  action  is  terrific  at  times;  vividness  and  life  are  in 
every  part;  and  brilliant  descriptions  entertain  the  reader  and 
give  a  singular  fascination  to  the  tale."  —  Grand  Rapids 
Herald. 


12  THE   PAGE    COMPANY'S 

WORKS  OF 

GABRIELE  D'ANNUNZIO 

Signer  d'Annunzio  is  known  throughout  the  world  as  a  poet 
and  a  dramatist,  but  above  all  as  a  novelist,  for  it  is  in  his 
novels  that  he  is  at  his  best.  In  poetic  thought  and  graceful 
expression  he  has  few  equals  among  the  writers  of  the  day. 

He  is  engaged  on  a  most  ambitious  work  —  nothing  less  than 
the  writing  of  nine  novels  which  cover  the  whole  field  of  human 
sentiment.  This  work  he  has  divided  into  three  trilogies,  and 
five  of  the  nine  books  have  been  published.  It  is  to  be  re- 
gretted that  other  labors  have  interrupted  the  completion  of 
the  series. 

"This  book  is  realistic.  Some  say  that  it  is  brutally  so. 
But  the  realism  is  that  of  Flaubert,  and  not  of  Zola.  There 
is  no  plain  speaking  for  the  sake  of  plain  speaking.  Every 
detail  is  justified  in  the  fact  that  it  illuminates  either  the 
motives  or  the  actions  of  the  man  and  woman  who  here  stand 
revealed.  It  is  deadly  true.  The  author  holds  the  mirror  up 
to  nature,  and  the  reader,  as  he  sees  his  own  experiences  dupli- 
cated in  passage  after  passage,  has  something  of  the  same 
sensation  as  all  of  us  know  on  the  first  reading  of  George 
Meredith's  '  Egoist.'  Reading  these  pages  is  like  being  out  in 
the  country  on  a  dark  night  in  a  storm.  Suddenly  a  flash  of 
lightning  comes  and  every  detail  of  your  surroundings  is 
revealed."  —  Review  of  "  The  Triumph  of  Death "  in  the  New 
York  Evening  Sun. 

The  volumes  published  are  as  follows.  Each  1  vol.,  library 
12mo,  cloth,  $1.75 

£ 

THE  ROMANCES  OF  THE  ROSE 

THE  CHILD  OF  PLEASURE   (It  PIACERE) 

THE  INTRUDER    (L'INNOCENTE) 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  DEATH   (It  TRIONFO  DELLA  MORTE) 

<£ 

THE  ROMANCES  OF  THE  LILY 

THE  MAIDENS   OF  THE   ROCKS    (LE   VERGINI  DELLE 
ROCCE) 

^ 

THE  ROMANCES  OF  THE  POMEGRANATE 
THE  FLAME  OF  LIFE    (!L  Fuoco) 


LIST   OF   FICTION  13 

WORKS    OF 

CHARLES    G.    D.    ROBERTS 

HAUNTERS    OF   THE   SILENCES 

Cloth  decorative,  with  many  drawings  by  Charles  Livingston 
Bull,  four  of  which  are  in  full  color.  $3.00 

The  stories  in  Mr.  Roberts's  new  collection  are  the  strongest 
and  best  he  has  ever  written. 

He  has  largely  taken  for  his  subjects  those  animals  rarely 
met  with  in  books,  whose  lives  are  spent  "  In  the  Silences," 
where  they  are  the  supreme  rulers. 

"  As  a  writer  about  animals,  Mr.  Roberts  occupies  an  envi- 
able place.  He  is  the  most  literary,  as  well  as  the  most  imag- 
inative and  vivid  of  all  the  nature  writers."  —  Brooklyn  Eagle. 

RED   FOX 

THE  STORY  OP  His  ADVENTUROUS  CAREER  IN  THE  RINOWAAK 
WILDS,  AND  OF  His  FINAL  TRIUMPH  OVER  THE  ENEMIES  OF 
His  KIND.    With  fifty  illustrations,  including  frontispiece  in 
color  and  cover  design  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 
Square  quarto,  cloth  decorative  $3.00 

"  True  in  substance,  but  fascinating  as  fiction.  It  will  inter- 
est old  and  young,  city-bound  and  free-footed,  those  who  know 
animals  and  those  who  do  not."  —  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

THE   KINDRED    OF   THE    WILD 

A  BOOK  OF  ANIMAL  LIFE.     With  fifty-one  full-page  plates 

and  many  decorations  from  drawings  by  Charles  Livingston 

Bull. 

Square  quarto,  cloth  decorative  $3.00 

"  Is  in  many  ways  the  most  brilliant  collection  of  animal 

stories  that  has  appeared;  well  named  and  well  done."  —  John 

Burroughs. 

THE  WATCHERS  OF  THE  TRAILS 

A  companion  volume  to  "  The  Kindred  of  the  Wild."  With 
forty-eight  full-page  plates  and  many  decorations  from 
drawings  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 

Square  quarto,  cloth  decorative  $3.00 

"  These  stories  are  exquisite  in  their  refinement,  and  yet 
robust  in  their  appreciation  of  some  of  the  rougher  phases  of 
woodcraft.  Among  the  many  writers  about  .animals,  Mr.  Rob- 
erts occupies  an  enviable  place."  —  The  Outlook. 


14  THE    PAGE    COMPANY'S 

WORKS  OF  CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS  (Continued) 
THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  WATER 

With  thirty  full-page  illustrations. 

Library  12rao,  cloth  decorative,  $3.00 

"  This  is  a  book  full  of  delight.  An  additional  charm  lies  in 
Mr.  Bull's  faithful  and  graphic  illustrations,  which  in  fashion 
all  their  own  tell  the  story."  —  Literary  Digest. 

BARBARA  LADD 

Library   12mo,  cloth  decorative,  illustrated,  $1.90 

"  A  very  fine  novel.  We  unhesitatingly  pronounce  it  ... 
one  of  the  books  that  stamp  themselves  at  once  upon  the  imag- 
ination." —  Literary  World,  Boston. 

THE  PRISONER  OF  MADEMOISELLE 

Library  12mo,  cloth  decorative,  $1.90 

"  This  is  the  kind  of  a  story  that  makes  one  grow  younger, 
more  innbcent,  more  light-hearted.  Its  literary  quality  is  im- 
peccable. It  is  not  every  day  that  such  a  heroine  blossoms  into 
even  temporary  existence."  —  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

THE  HEART  OF  THE  ANCIENT  WOOD 

Library   12mo,  decorative  cover,  illustrated,  $1.90 

"  One  of  the  most  fascinating  novels  of  recent  days."  — 
Boston  Journal. 

"  A  classic  twentieth-century  romance."  —  New  York  Com- 
mercial Advertiser. 

THE  FORGE  IN  THE  FOREST 

Being  the  Narrative  of  the  Acadian  Ranger,  Jean  de  Mer, 
Seigneur  de  Briart,  and  how  he  crossed  the  Bla,ck  Abbe,  and 
of  his  adventures  in  a  strange  fellowship. 
Library  12mo,  cloth  decorative,  illustrated,  $1.90 

A  story  of  pure  love  and  heroic  adventure. 

BY  THE  MARSHES  OF  MINAS 

Library  12mo,  cloth  decorative,  illustrated,  $1.75 

Most  of  these  romances  are  in  the  author's  lighter  and  more 

playful  vein;  each  is  a  unit  of  absorbing  interest  and  exquisite 

workmanship. 

A  SISTER  TO  EVANGELINE 

Being  the  Story  of  Yvonne  de  Lamourie,  and  how  she  went 
into  exile  with  the  villagers  of  Grand  Pre. 
Library  12mo,  cloth  decorative,  illustrated,  $1.75 

Swift  action,  fresh  atmosphere,  wholesome  purity,  deep  pas- 
sion, and  searching  analysis  characterize  this  strong  novel. 


A     000126854     9 


